Repulse
by spade-of-hearts
Summary: In a steampunk-inspired World War II, treachery and secrets abound as the world spirals closer to chaos. Steve is a soldier with nothing to lose. Tony is a genius who doesn't know where his loyalties lie. Clint is a sailor with a dark past he'd give anything to leave behind. War will bring them together, and war will tear them apart.
1. Prologue: Flight

_A lie told once remains a lie,_

 _But a lie told a thousand times becomes the truth._

 _\- Joseph Goebbels, Reich Minister of Propaganda_

* * *

 _Berlin; June 29, 1941_

Legend had it that the floors of Tempelhof Airport were waxed until they were slick so that, according to the reasoning of the Führer, foreigners were forced to watch their step lest they fall before the might of the German state.

It gave Doctor Abraham Erskine an excuse to look at his shoes as he ducked under the swooping edifices of the airport's architecture. The great structures of marble and glass, austere and utterly inhuman, swept through the bitter air in sharp angles. The biting cold and the harsh, frigid surfaces seemed to point to the snow that hung heavy in the blackening clouds collecting above Erskine's head. He wondered if the pilots would dare to venture out into the brewing storm.

The very air in the terminal seemed to bleed with the pride of the German Reich – aviation fuel congealing in the air, and the ears of future passengers were pummeled by the crackling speakers and the constant humming of engines. Planes roared like lions as they tore through the sky, fangs bared.

Erskine shuddered, only partly from the cold. Tempelhof had been recently renovated, every tile shined and every lightbulb gleaming. The doctor felt as if he were lying on an operating table, with a thousand sharp devices dangling over his head. How strange it was to be on the other side of the scalpel!

The differences were stark– Erskine believed he did his work for good. These soldiers had evil blooming at their cores like tumors.

The doctor ran a hand over his unshaven cheek, clenching his grip on his briefcase. The journey to the passport desk was only a few feet, but it felt like a marathon as his feet slapped against the waxed marble floors. Every one of his movements seemed to be magnified, like someone was peering at him through a microscope. Security cameras crouched in every corner, starting down at him with sinister expressions. He was going mad from it all.

Sweat pooled on his briefcase handle as he handed his passport to a smiling, blond-haired model of a desk clerk. Her eyes revealed that he had nothing to fear, that this was only an excursion from home. If only those eyes spoke the truth! Beneath the neatly packed clothes and toiletries in his case lay the key to victory, the answer to winning the war. The desk clerk couldn't see that. She could hardly see beyond her well-powdered nose.

The doctor had nothing to fear. His documents were impeccable, his flight was secured. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had his lies branded to his skin for all to see, his sweaty brow revealing the secret he strove to hide at all costs.

Members of the _Zollgrenzshutz,_ border police, patrolled the terminals like packs of wolves. Massive guns were slung across their backs, the image of German might. The looked down their noses at the soon-to-be passengers, searching for suspicious-looking peoples. Black gazes danced across the room, drifting across Erskine's features before wandering off. He was caught in the crosshairs, trapped in their all-seeing vision.

Straightening his shoulders, Erskine walked past the soldiers and on to his security checkpoint. His passport was scrutinized again, his boarding card verified and his visas rechecked. Everything was in order, which seemed to almost disappoint the security men, if only in the slightest. _Surely someone will throw you dogs a bone later_ , Erskine thought with the ghost of a smirk.

He fell into line behind a gossiping pair of young lovers, hands entwined and whispers held low under the blast of the air conditioning. The woman held a pair of glossy red heels in her hand that matched her bloodred lipstick, obviously anticipating the second security check coming up.

"I heard they're sending them to the east, of course, but what's there besides the Communists?"

"Better there than here, if you're asking me," her partner replied. A husband? Boyfriend? Both obviously Aryan, and well-to-do. Untroubled.

"Anyways, I can hardly wait to see the States. Such glamor, and their movie stars! I cannot wait to see an American movie. And the shops!" she sighed and placed a fluttering hand to her chest, smiling all the while. The man wasn't really listening to her small talk, merely watching her lips, her sparkling eyes. For them, all was well.

Bags rolled forward on a metal conveyor belt which trundled and squeaked beside the passengers. Erskine froze for a moment as he surveyed his next obstacle. He was sure his cargo was protected, but the sight of the X-ray scanner ahead was enough to bring on another wave of fresh terror. If he were caught he would be impounded, tortured in Gestapo chambers. Shipped off to the east like the young lady was saying, never to be seen again. No, it was impossible. He was a doctor, a good servant of the Reich.

Needless to say it was all a facade. But would it hold?

The young woman giggled lightly as the thick fingers of the _Zollgrenzshutz_ soldier ran down the length of her shapely legs, taking extra care to make sure she was carrying no illegal weapons or substances. The man was frisked in a far shorter time, looking at his lover with longing eyes as the baton was waved across his arms and chest. Relinquishing his death grip on the suitcase, Erskine rolled it into the scanner and stepped forward for his own inspection.

The customs man was young, with a swarthy, pockmarked face and a twisted sort of smile. He waved his baton over Erskine's legs and attempted to make friendly small talk. "Where are you headed, Herr...?"

"Erskine," the doctor responded, fighting to keep the tremble from his voice. He offered the young man a paltry smile, running a hand through his thinning brown hair.

"You are going to America, no, Herr Erskine? You are going to see the moving pictures? Listen to American jazz?" The soldier grinned, although it revealed itself with the general impression of a rather large grimace.

"Truthfully, I prefer the music of our German classical artists. American jazz cannot be seen as anything but inferior to our great works." The words of a true German burned like treason on Erskine's tongue. He needed only to imitate the voices that blared through the radio, the screaming headlines of superiority and might. Erskine wondered if he had oversold his act, but his lies had the desired effect on the young soldier. His face grew somber and his eyes widened – he was _obviously_ in the presence of some higher-ranking general, a true Party member to the core! Erskine bit his lip, hoping the man wouldn't take a second look at his passport...

" _Ja, ja,_ indeed. You are all finished here. _Heil Hitler!_ " the soldier threw up a salute, and Erskine mimicked the hated movement. Sweeping his suitcase from the end of the conveyor belt, he brushed past the security men and hurried on to his departure gate.

The evils had passed, his demons lingering behind him. Freedom and elation seized his throat, but he forced himself to keep his head down and his eyes on his worn shoes as he assembled at the terminal for New York City. Enormous windows leaned away towards the many runways of Tempelhof, so clear he felt as if he would fall through them if he leaned forward. Passenger airplanes and small commercial airships taxied towards their destinations, the low grumble of an engine taking off thundering in the distance. The black clouds of the approaching storm swirled slowly above the airport, some divine portal finding its nexus at this place of departure. Freedom and imprisonment stood hand in hand, a paradox that tore Erskine to his core.

But now he was free. He was rid of brown uniforms and red armbands and Party rallies. He was on his way to the golden shores of America, untouched by the war that was pulling his country apart at the seams.

Yet even as Erskine's plane approached the terminal, he couldn't help but feel the lurking darkness creeping at the back of his mind. Germany had struck so many, killed so many more. It had leveled itself at the might of Europe and Europe had fallen.

Would he ever be safe from this lurking menace? Where would it choose to strike next?

* * *

 _Thank you for reading the first chapter of Repulse! Feel free to leave a review with any questions or impressions so far :)_

 _(Updates Friday)_


	2. The Home Front

_"I don't feel like I'm any kind of hero. To me, the work had to be done._

 _I was asked to do it. So I did... Don't brag that you're anything more than you are."_

 _\- Private Joe Lesniewski_

* * *

 _New York City; July 3, 1941_

Life on the _U.S.S. Repulse_ was as close to heaven as you could get. Unfortunately for Steve, his boots were fixed firmly on the ground.

It satisfied him enough to watch the mighty battlecruiser inflate her ballonets, swelling in the autumn sunrise. Rays of light angled off of her smooth, cow-skin bladder, amber light that seared Steve's eyes. He didn't mind, though, leaning forward over the fence until the metal cut into his armpits. He was careful to keep his toeholds in the shallow indents of the fence – last time a group of kids had wandered by and kicked at a loose board, sending him to his rear in seconds.

"When's the wedding?" A voice drawled behind Steve, and he pivoted to see a young man standing behind him, hands held casually in pockets. Steve felt the need to snap to attention – Bucky looked mighty sharp with his knee-high boots and spiffy overcoat. A black tie wound its way about his neck, and a blue armband depicted his rank for all to see: Airman Basic, assigned to the _Repulse_. Burning pride and envy twisted Steve's stomach as he watched Bucky preen over his new digs.

"Ah, don't look so down. You'll nail the next test, that's for sure." Bucky slugged Steve slightly in the shoulder, a beaming grin splitting his face. "Tell you what – we'll take a walk down the street and you can have dibs on half the girls that throw themselves at me. Deal?"

"No way." Steve shoved Bucky's hand away. "I have to get home and study."

The excitement in Bucky's eyes seemed to darken as he surveyed Steve. "Look, Rogers, why don't you give it a rest? Have some fun before this big blimp pulls out of New York. I hear there's a fair or something in Central Park. Let's go see a ball game!"

Ducking his head, Steve laughed bitterly to his shoes. He knew his best friend didn't mean to be hurtful, but the words still stung. Bucky was always turning the conversation away from enlistment, away from the war that he was getting dragged into himself. "You don't think I can make it."

"No," Bucky replied emphatically. "It's just that this will be the what, fifth time now? You're going to get caught with those forged ID's, and you'll be out of the service for sure. I don't want to see that."

Fiery anger seared at Steve's stomach – why did Bucky have to be so pretentious all the time? That uniform had made him a snobbish git. "Maybe you like the fact you're finally better at something than me. Why don't you go shine your buttons or something? Whatever you army troops do in your free time."

Bucky recoiled, eyes narrowing. "You don't mean that."

Turning on his heel, Steve narrowed his eyes and refused to look back. "See you around, _Airman Barnes._ "

To his credit, Bucky didn't call after him. But frankly Steve didn't care either way.

-o0o-

The apartment was small and cramped, with a rather unfortunate patch of mildew creeping up the far wall, but to Steve it was home.

Sheaths of paper rustled on the wall when he opened the door, letting in the brisk August draft. The door sprung back behind him, pulled by an elaborate system of springs and gears Steve had finagled together a few summers ago. A sharp whine hummed from the contraption – he would have to give it a good oiling soon.

The papers on the wall were his sketches, anything and everything he could translate into graphite. Central Park spread over a large patch of the wall, with bits of the lake and a few fountains fluttering here and there with the wind. From the corner peeked his portraits, the rough outlines of faces. Bucky scowled down at him, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. A few hasty sketches of a girl he had caught sight of on Wall Street were pinned up over his desk. She had been wearing the uniform of a British officer, but he didn't catch her insignia. Sharp eyes and high cheekbones drilled down at him as he watched.

Steve's desk was a clutter of old machine parts, half-finished drawings, and Force manuals. He had drilled himself until he saw magazines and disassembled firearms in his sleep. Gas masks, carbine rifles, even the fundamentals of Army Basic practice planes – he had covered all of his bases. There was no way the Force could turn him down. He had presented his impeccable grades and citizenship to the enlistment center, eyes wide and hopeful...

And had it returned to him with a sorry smile and an apology. Steve knew why, of course. He still hadn't had his growth spurt yet, even though he was well past the age, and he had no muscle mass to speak of. A few of the other soldiers enlisting had commented on his diminutive stature, saying they could use him as a lockpick to work their way into the German bases.

Steve ignored them. Partly because his saying that German bases would have more defenses than a simple lock would earn him a fist to the nose, and partly because he was praying to escape another side-alley brawl. Less of a lockpick, more of a punching bag.

Absentmindedly he fiddled with one of the engines he had constructed, fingers flying over the little parts. In seconds he had primed the wires and checked every piston, each smaller than the nail on his little finger. Carefully he pressed the mechanism into the body of a miniature B-17 Flying Fortress. The metal was sleek beneath his fingers, the lithe form of the plane shaped intentionally under his hands. The propellers and walnut-sized engines sputtered to a start when he flipped the switch above the blue and red painted star, and the Fortress started a lazy course down the length of his desk.

Steve waited expectantly as the Fortress made its way to the end of his desk, then fell to the floorboards. At the last second, before the delicate metal shattered from the steep fall, the plane's nose jolted upright. The propellers spun faster with a low whirr as the Fortress took to the air, flying a few loops around the room before drifting back down to the threadbare rug. Steve grinned as he pocketed the small machine, already running over plans in his head to keep it in the air longer. He had a mind for that sort of thing, taking the plane apart in his head and piecing it back together with his hands.

But the Air Force couldn't measure his brain as well as they could measure his stature, so he was turned away every time.

Snatching a pair of apples from his cupboard, Steve unlocked the door and hurried back to the streets again. He already felt guilty for lashing out at Bucky, and he knew just where his friend would be.

-o0o-

The cable car wasn't the most pleasant way to get around New York, but it was faster than walking any day. Besides, the drivers would usually take pity on Steve and let him ride without a fare, which he appreciated. Ever since his parents had passed in the war money had been tighter than a hyperfine spring coil, and cable fares started to add up pretty quickly.

He was crushed between a rather voluptuous woman with a thick Russian accent and a harried-looking businessman hunched over a newspaper. Steve peered over the man's shoulder to get a look at the day's news, the headlines screaming at him from every angle.

 _SOMETHING MUST CHANGE NOW! The Post_ declared, and underneath the too-large letters was a grainy photograph of a mass of soldiers, hunched over the French countryside. Steve knew it was one of the German's war tactics that had gained fame with journalists and the imagination of the American public. _Blitzkrieg_ , lightning war. Storming across the countries lying in the Germans' way, tanks punching through the boundaries of countries. A tide of red and black washed over Europe, declared the type of the newspaper. Looking at the pictures plastered across the pages, a sickening feeling curdled in Steve's stomach.

No wonder France had fallen so quickly.

Steve despised the Germans as much as the next man, but he felt a rogue spark of admiration for their creations. The planes and tanks depicted in every paper in the States were of incredible workmanship, compared to the blundering armament designs Steve had managed to dig up from the library. He caught the businessman staring at him and directed his eyes to the ceiling, feigning nonchalance. The cable car lurched to a lethargic start, the Russian woman fell backward against Steve's elbows, and a particularly unpleasant ride began.

He hopped off at the Battery, showing a hard-faced military man his papers before entering the small park. It was less of a park now and more of a war zone, with sandbags piled high and a massive anti-aircraft gun scanning the overcast skies. Allied tech might be inferior to the Germans with regards to their tanks, but the massive gun barrels would plug any of the Krauts out of the air. The sight should have been comforting, but his mind drifted to Bucky again. Would he have to face this sort of defenses in Germany as well?

He circled Battery Park, then wandered back out into their neighborhood. The lapping waves of the Atlantic Ocean sent a chilled wind over New York City, and the bleak light cast a dismal gloom over the day. Steve leaned against the railing to the sea, taking a bit out of his apple as he watched ships pull back and forth across the steel-gray water. Every so often a lesser airship would drift upwards, tossed slightly by the breeze, and fade into the distance. If Steve strained his eyes enough he could make out the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. The torch appeared to hang at an odd angle from Steve's vantage point, angled towards the ocean that stretched out for hundreds of miles. Pointing to Europe, pointing to war. War wasn't here yet, but Steve could practically taste it.

He was about to head out and search for Bucky again when a sharp cry echoed from a nearby alley. Immediately Steve whirled around, expecting the onslaught of fists from some newly made soldier with a grudge, but no one came. The cry sounded again, followed by a gibbering language – was that German?

Steve darted across the street, dodging a young woman with a bicycle and narrowly leaping out of the way of a trundling street car, and glanced into the alley. The sound of a thumping blow reached Steve's ears and he hurried into the darkening shadows of the narrow way, feet slapping against the puddling water that trickled down the slope to the harbor.

Behind a pile of bins a teenager in a service uniform stood, one bloodied fist raised over his head preparation for another strike. At his feet knelt a middle-aged man, with a patchy beard and wispy white hair. He looked positively terrified, one hand held up to stay the young man's blows, the other clutching a broken nose. Steve leaped forward and dragged back the arm of the young man, pulling him back a few feet before the soldier recovered his balance.

"What do you want?" The kid spat. Steve noticed he was rather ugly, with an unpleasant sneer plastered across his young features. "This German scumbag was asking for trouble." He gave Steve a short up-and-down, his sneer deepening to a scowl. "One of the army rejects, aren' you?"

Fighting to maintain his composure, Steve straightened and glowered at the soldier. "I fail to see how this is any business of yours. What did this man do to provoke you?"

The soldier's face flushed a blotchy scarlet and he fumbled for a response. "Well – er – what's he doin' here in New York, a lousy Kraut like him? I bet he's got plans for atom weapons and the lot in his pockets right now. I was protectin' the peace, I was!"

Ignoring the soldier, Steve knelt and helped the shaken man to his feet. He offered him a handkerchief, slightly stained with grease but otherwise clean, and turned back to the young man. "Leave him alone and I won't report this to your superior. I'm sure this isn't your first conduct disorder, hm?" Blushing to eggplant purple, the boy fixed his stony gaze on his shoes. "Now that that's settled, why don't you run along?"

The soldier needed no more prompting, darting back onto the streets and out of sight as fast as his oversized feet could carry him. Steve turned back to the German man, who looked bewildered at what had just occurred. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Steve Rogers. What do you say we find somewhere else to chat before that buffoon realizes I don't know who on earth his superior is?"

A tentative smile spread across the man's lips, his voice thick with his accent and newly acquired broken nose. "I'd like that very much."

They stopped at the shipyard, pausing on a bench while the ribs of mammoth ships stretched above their heads. The completed models belched columns of smoke into the air, and the entire harbor thundered with a thousand sounds of metal knocking against metal, the hiss of steam, the squeak of a loose gear. To Steve it sounded like home, and he relaxed on the bench while the German man sat next to him. He looked anxious, and less worse for wear now that the blood had been mopped off of his face.

"I am Doctor Abraham Erskine. A pleasure." He dipped his head in Steve's direction. "I must thank you for rescuing me. I have only just arrived to this country..."

"How'd you come?" Steve interrupted, suddenly ramrod-straight and at attention. "Did you take a zeppelin? Or perhaps a ship? I'm quite familiar with the German models of planes – was it an Albatros?"

"You are very eager to learn," Erskine chuckled, holding up a hand. "Slow down! If you must know, it was a Spitfire. Are you familiar with them?"

"Familiar?" Steve gawked. "I've built miniatures of it with my own hands! The engine was the hardest to compress, of course, I had to improvise a bit with my own parts. Still haven't worked out all the bugs, sometimes the poor thing will go into a dive in the middle of flying. Scared the neighbor's cats silly. Are you a doctor of engineering?"

Erskine shook his head slowly, a faint smile tweaking his lips. "My field of study is biology, my boy. I find out what makes you and I tick. And now a question for you, my inquisitive friend – you don't seem to possess a strident hatred for Germans like that fellow back in the alley did. Why so?"

Steve certainly hadn't been expecting _that_ question. He trained his gaze on an elaborate pulley system as it winched up a set of parts onto the skeleton of a ship, allowing his mind to tear the machine apart, exploding into parts before his eyes. "I'm not quite sure, sir. It would make sense that I would, what with the war and all. You may be just the example – sure, loads of Germans are horrible, and forgive my quick assumption, but you seem to be a rather fine fellow. I don't think the rest of us see it that way, though."

Erskine patted Steve's shoulder in a fatherly sort of way. "You seem wise beyond your years, young man. Forgive _my_ quick assumption, but the American forces would appreciate having a man of your caliber in their ranks, would they not?"

Steve knew Erskine wasn't trying to snub him, but the comment stung all the same. "I guess they don't see it that way." He muttered darkly. "All they see is a laundry list of reasons why I'm unfit for service."

The doctor released a sharp, German-sounding laugh, all bark. "Is that what they look for in soldiers? Just brawn? Then I fear my plan may very well be all in vain."

His eyes angled up, examining the skies behind thin spectacles. Steve followed his eyes and his jaw dropped when he saw a shadow emerging from the clouds, a twisting mantle stretching from the front of the zeppelin like a saber. Blue fabric clashed starkly with the drab colors of the sky, and the insignia of the British was visible from Steve's vantage point far below. The airship was positively massive, with a jutting scramble of machinery cramped beneath its ballooning bulk. Trails of steam drifted in the wind as it passed over the harbor, headed for the Empire State Building. Another Lend-Lease transaction, he assumed.

"War is coming, Steven." Erskine murmured, running a hand over his balding head. "We teeter at the brink of it, and it may come faster than you think."

A single thought drilled through Steve's mind as the airship dropped its riggings to the ESB crew: _And I won't be part of it._

* * *

 _Lend-Lease: The sale, lease, transfer or exchange of arms and supplies to 'any country whose defense the President deems vital to the defense of the United States.'_

 _Reviews are always welcome! What do you think so far? :)_


	3. Loose Cannon

_"Anyhow, now's the time to experiment... Things are on the up and up..._

 _And all you have to do, girls and boys, is get a new approach, do some delving for a change_ –

 _God knows you've had a long rest."_

 _\- Sam Kootz_

* * *

 _The Atlantic Ocean; July 9, 1941_

Tony Stark was very young, very brilliant, and at the moment very bored.

"Do you realize what you've done?" Howard seethed, glowering down at his son with a glare that could cut through steel.

"I was just showing them my designs." Tony slouched lower on the couch, feeling the thrum of the airplane's engines beneath his heels. It was enough to get picked up from Rome by his father, who he hadn't been expecting to see until the end of the blasted war, but Howard had to come and smother him with luxury again.

"To the Fascists! In Rome!" Howard spat, eyes practically popping out of his head. "Who, may I add, are _allied to the Germans!_ "

Tony rolled his eyes. "Not for long, they aren't. Mussolini's a downright fool, can't decide when and where he wants to invade. They'll be overrun soon."

With a heaving sigh Howard crossed his arms, bristling with rage. "If by 'soon' you mean in three years then yes, by all means. But the British are too busy tangling themselves up in Africa to be of much good on the continent. So while you were busy flying yourself to Rome in one of _my_ aircraft, showing off your nasty bit of tinkering, I had to clean up the wreckage you left behind."

"What wreckage? I didn't shoot anything down." He had been sorely tempted to, though. It had been his first time flying without Howard breathing down his neck, spitting out needless comments about things Tony already knew. Flying was exhilarating, swooping over enemy territory with only his wits and his skills about him. And a case full of designs, that is.

"And your foolish inventions!" Howard began to pace, shaking a finger in the air. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"What about them?" Tony perked up slightly. His father had never complimented him on anything before, and he would continue that pattern until he was dead in the grave. Maybe his headstone would bear the everlasting phrase: _Tony, stop that. That's rubbish. You missed something here. You'll never be as good at mechanics as me. Blah, blah, blah._

But if Howard had anything to say about his designs, that meant they must be worth something.

"War machines?" Howard tore a loose sheet from the wooden crate, swinging it around in Tony's face. The clean lines depicted the sculpted form of an angular plane, with aerodynamic wings and a mass of machinery hunched in the thing's stomach. A smooth glass plate stretched across the cockpit, with an exploded view on the side detailing every part of the inner workings. It all fit in rather neatly – a tricky bit of machinery Tony had spent far too long puzzling out. The plane was one of the things the Fascists had seemed interested in.

"Do you know who else makes machines like these? Countries that are at _war!_ The bloody _Germans!_ " Howard spat, then tore the paper in half. Tony leaped to his feet as the shreds of paper drifted to the ground.

"Maybe the Germans have got good ideas every once and a while! If you'd just look at them –" He protested, a sick feeling curdling in his stomach.

Howard's eyes hardened to stone and he lifted another page of paper from the crate. It displayed a view of the circuit board for the plane, covered in Tony's scrawling script that explained every wire. Without blinking his father shredded the second paper vehemently. Anger spiked in Tony's veins, washing his vision in red, but he balled his fists and held his tongue.

"This is treason," Howard growled. "You're not satisfied with what I do for you? All the parts you want, all the technical expertise you could ever need. Your tutor tells me you're failing math. _Math?_ How can you stir up these wild fantasies if you can't even manage calculus?"

"I went to the Fascists because they think that young people can actually change things!" Tony exploded, looking his father dead in the eye. "Unlike the rest of you lot, who are happy with your ugly clunking chunks of metal that putter through the air. I wanted to –"

Howard held up a hand, silencing him. "This is a matter of pride, isn't it? You just wanted someone to croon about you and tell you how special you are. When did you become so selfish?"

Tony was stunned into silence. Each word fell like a blow against his chest. Howard had been cruel before, of course, but now he was positively furious.

"The Fascists were very willing to make a deal for your freedom once they figured out just who you were. I had to give the Italians insight onto the German Cherry Stone project to get you back. You know what that is?"

"No, but give me a radio and I'll find out for you in a few minutes." Tony cracked a grin that fell limp with Howard's scathing glare.

" _A rocket launcher!_ With rockets they are going to launch at the British population!" Howard boomed, his voice echoing in the enclosed space of the plane. Tony sat back on the couch, already puzzling over a mass of calculations.

"Really? What are they using for propulsion? From Berlin to London, say? They'd still be short on range, even by my inventions' standards." Tony noted, smirking as Howard's face turned crimson with anger.

"Is this some kind of joke to you? Because of your hubris you just sealed the graves of hundreds, maybe thousands of people. My son!" Howard roared, and Tony shrank back in his seat.

"What do you want me to say, that I'm sorry?" Tony muttered. "Maybe if you would take me seriously for once this whole thing wouldn't have happened!"

The blow came faster than Tony could anticipate, a ringing concussion against his cheekbone that sent his sprawling against the arm of the couch. Howard's rage was cold now, burning fire masked by a tightly neutral expression and trembling fists. "I don't expect you to understand this, but you can tip the scales of the war. Mind you don't do anything so utterly stupid next time." With a scowl Howard turned and stalked out of the cabin, shutting the doors to the cockpit behind him with a slam.

Groaning, Tony raised a hand to his eye – it was already starting to swell. "This'll be quite the story to tell mom," he grumbled, reaching for the crate. Howard had toppled it in his exit, and the leafs of paper were scattered across the floor. More than one had a black bootprint smearing the ink, and plenty were torn beyond repair. Thankfully Howard had gotten all of the designs back in exchange for that stupid rocket launcher; the Italians had seemed quite keen on a few of the blueprints.

Tony was the opposite of a Fascist, and as far away from a Kraut as you could be, but he meant what he said with the Axis having some alright ideas. The German machines were marvelous, capable of so much more than the flex-less rigidity of Allied craft. Tony had studied up on their tanks and planes for ages before sketching up his plans for five or so machinations, making sure he knew exactly which parts did what. Rendered in metal, the machines were quite beautiful, and even more deadly.

He meant what he said about his father, as well. Howard had never seen beyond Tony's shortcomings, always profuse and readily available to weaponize. The Fascists, as jumbled in the head as they were, at least seemed to think that Tony could be worth something, which was a hell of a lot more than Howard had ever seen in him.

With a sigh Tony rocked back on his heels and picked up a few scraps of his plane designs, trying to fit the torn paper together as best he could. They were ruined, one stamped with what smelled to be shoe polish. When did his father get to be such a square? Who even shined the bottoms of their shoes, anyways?

Digging deep into the bottom of the crate, Tony fished out a small package of crisp, brown paper, undamaged from the flight to Rome and the hasty trip back. He breathed a sigh of relief, his nerves settling, as his fingers danced over the twine keeping the parcel together. It had been his last-ditch resort if the idiot Fascists wouldn't listen to him, plans he'd been fostering in secret since he had learned to knit two gears together. And they were safe, thank his lucky stars.

Stars that beamed just outside of his window, he noticed as he pressed his nose against the glass, leaving a smudge against the plastic. The Atlantic Ocean roiled far beneath the plane's wings as they drew ever nearer to Washington, D.C. Home meant his workshop and Jarvis, but it also meant his mother.

A knot of guilt burned in Tony's stomach as he watched the ocean speed by beneath him. He had expected the anger from his father, but his mother's disappointment still made him as guilty as ever. These days she seemed nothing but disappointed, though – surely she had gotten used to it. All tender words and a wry frown she couldn't quite twist out of her perpetual smile.

A stony silence filled the plane, and it didn't help that Howard sat mere yards away from Tony. Just to spite him Tony walked over to the minibar and searched for the most expensive-looking liquor he could. A dusty brandy bottle sat cradled in the corner, a faded ribbon tied loosely around its neck. From his experience with Howard's liquor Tony assumed it was worth a fortune and a half. He twisted the bottle open and poured a glass up to the brim with the amber liquid, then took a strong swig, spluttering it out a second later. The stuff tasted like everything foul in the world and burned every inch of his mouth until his tongue tingled unpleasantly. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Tony left the almost-full glass on the counter. Howard would blow a gasket – if he had any left to blow, given his rage against his son moments earlier. Tony's run-in with the Italians had left him pretty livid.

He had turned away from the bar when he noticed a cardboard box shoved behind the bar, heavily taped with bent corners from turbulence. A faint and familiar jangling echoed from its contents, the sound of mechanical parts that made Tony's heart leap. Finally, something he could do while he waited for landing.

Tearing the tape off with a frenzied sort of excitement, Tony pulled out a collection of partly assembled limbs, slender bones built up with a mass of mechanical muscle that operated the contraption's structure. Thin bands like ribs formed human-esque limbs, filling out the space of the thing's body. Tony pulled out a rolling set of mechanical eyeballs, with crude bulbs concealed in the irises to illuminate the contraption's eyes in a nod to reality. It was rather bandy-limbed and skinny, shaped into a rough rectangle, but clearly some sort of bartender bot Howard had never installed.

Hours bled together as Tony slowly screwed the contraption together, nestling gears into meshes and coiling delicate turns of wire that pressed deeply into their fittings. The head screwed on backwards and refused to budge, requiring liberal amounts of oil and muscle power to position in the right way. Soon Tony's hands were slick with grease and his spiffy-looking suit was stained with blackened fingerprints. His father would explode when he saw the mess on his posh carpet, but Tony didn't care. He had long since disregarded Howard's opinion in practically everything. _Then why am I building his filthy contraption?_

After a long while Tony stood the figure upright, positioning its foppish-looking bowler hat on its head with a sharp _click!_ Its hexagonal power cells were empty, as expected, and Tony didn't want to bring down the plane while charging the foolish thing. It was rather ugly, with a disturbingly bright smile and hollow-looking eyes. Even its mechanics were sloppy – German-made, he assumed. Or perhaps Italian, from what he'd learned about Fascist intellectual capacity that day. He wondered why his father had even bought the ruddy thing.

Turning the bartender bot around, Tony flipped open its main power hatch and tugged a length of wire that snaked up towards its skull, then neatly clipped another set of blue trailing strands. When he pressed the tips of the copper together sparks flew and a garbled mix of a popular tune spouted from the contraption's flapping metal mouth, warbling and shrieking with an awful racket. Tony clapped a hand over the thing's mouth and it calmed down, eyeballs rolling over the airplane's posh cabin.

"Howdya do, young mister?" The bot sounded extremely perky, its eyes flashing with a multitude of colors. "Can I get you anything? A whiskey, perhaps? You look like a whiskey sort of fellow."

"I'll take a milk. On the rocks." Tony snorted, settling back onto the couch. His hands left trails of black along the fabric. It had probably been imported from Milan or Austria or some far-off market, and Tony knew better than anyone that oil stains never came out.

"You're a real funny guy, huh? That's fine, I like funny guys." Its head tilted sideways, sending the bowler hat askew.

"You've got a complicated bit of machinery in that noggin of yours, old boy." Tony crossed his arms, smirking slightly. "Anything else you can do besides mixing up drinks?"

"I've been told that I have a good set of pipes on me. _Do I want to be with you, as the years come and go..._ " The bot crooned, a tinny sort of recording playing at is flapped its metal lips to the tune.

"I know about those pipes, I oiled every single one of them. What's your name then?" Tony asked, and the light behind the robot's eyes sputtered. Perhaps it was running out of its jump-start power.

"A pleasure. My name is Servo-32894, a product of Knudsun Electronics and Mechanics firm. If you'd like I can recall my batch number and serial code, but I think you'd be a bit bored by strings of numbers, and me rambling on and on..." A spark of light flashed behind the Servo's eyes. "But what about you, my young mechanic?"

Tony rolled his eyes, casting the cockpit a shot glance. Surely Howard had heard the bot's boisterous animation cycle, if the clatter of gears and wires hadn't tipped him off already. "Mechanic? Are you kidding? I'm the fulcrum of the war, sir! I'm the American who makes weapons of war like a right old German, and somehow I'm still as worthless as dirt."

"I don't compute." Servo's head tipped to the other side, his hat spinning about on his forehead.

"You and me both."

The robot stumbled on its sticklike legs as the plane tipped forward, the engines filling the cabin with a low buzz. Tony would have to inspect Servo's gyrosphere later – older models always needed fine-tuning on those fiddly devices. Even he had trouble with them sometimes, and that was saying something. Tony Stark needed nobody's help with mechanics, and he was barely old enough to be in service as is.

He shoved Servo behind the bar and tugged out his hastily hotwired fuse; the robot's eyes darkened and its posture sagged to a deadened state against the back of the counter. Just in time, too – the door to the cockpit opened and Howard walked out. He had smoothed back his hair, leaving lines where the teeth of his comb had skimmed through his hair gel, and looked just as dignified as if he were meeting the Prime Minister. Which he had on multiple occasions, and happened to drag Tony along. It was a dismal affair, as Tony had found Chamberlain positively revolting, far too much like Howard for his liking.

Howard's cold eyes fell on Tony's blackened hands and the streaks of oil that peppered the sofa and the thin rug. Tipping his chin upward, he continued on his way, careful not to scuff the tips of his shoes. Howard's British Loeb dress shoes were the finest England had to offer; perhaps that was why he worried himself so greatly about the plight of the Limeys. A spot of oil on the sole would merit a rigorous polishing.

"Come, Tony," Howard's eyes grazed over the cabin, lip curling ever so slightly. "Do radio in a cleaning service, won't you?"

Tony turned to see the pilot emerging from the cockpit, responding to his father with a sharp nod. At the Stark household, even trained pilots were treated like servants. Of course, Howard had made sure Tony could fly a plane before he started grade school, so a pilot's license didn't hinge on too much importance. It wouldn't surprise Tony in the slightest if his mother crept out at night and took the gliders for a spin.

The airfield was private, of course, with hydraulic steel plates running a mile up the Potomac, lined with cherry blossom trees. They looked particularly bare in the bitter winter, branches clawing like massive fingers into the blackened sky. Twin smokestacks plunged into the cloud-smeared sky filling the horizon with sticky soot and steam. Tony raised his head as he stepped down the short flight of steps onto the tarmac. The air smelled sharply of oil and a wisp of something floral – home as he knew it.

Tony ducked as the wings of the plane folded back on themselves, the segmented parts pushing into the cabin with the hiss of steam. The tail collapsed inward as well, giving the luxury plane the look of a massive sausage. It was unwieldy, but it stored much better than the full wingspan. The pilot drew out a small radio device and keyed in a short code, and the large tile of steel the plane was perched on slowly sank down into the ground, the plane tailoring itself in the right direction. The hiss of hydraulics pierced the air as the plane slowly lowered into the ground, then the airstrip raised itself back to the surface. There was no sign at all that an aircraft had landed mere minutes ago.

The aboveground hangars were uncharacteristically active, though, and Tony couldn't help but stare at the white structures with curiosity. A golden glow emanated from the airship hangars, and the dull buzz of power tools sounded through the whisper of the sweet-smelling breeze. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen someone doing any hard work in the airship hangars, and he hadn't heard word of a new project from Howard or the workers. Something was up, and Tony was determined to find out.

Howard pressed a firm hand against Tony's shoulder, directing him away from the noisy hangars and instead towards the manor. "Come, son. It is time to see your mother."

* * *

 _Fascists - specifically Italian Fascists, the leading political party of Italy during World War II. Led by Benito Mussolini._

 _Kraut - derogatory/slang term for a German_

 _Limey - derogatory/slang term for an Englishman_


	4. Anchors Aweigh

_"When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter,_

 _the fastest runner, the big-league ball players and the toughest boxers._

 _Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser._

 _Americans play to win all the time."_

 _\- General George Patton_

* * *

 _Naval Air Station Pasco, Washington D.C.; July 10, 1941_

The _U.S.S. Reuben James_ had launched with little fanfare, drizzling rain dusting the shoulders of the Navy boys' dress uniforms as they assembled on the aft deck. Lieutenant Commander Edwards had said a few brief words, his voice barely audible above the bluster of the chilling autumn wind. The soldiers shivered in their sodden clothes – the wise ones had brought peacoats, but Clint was forced to stand motionless as the brisk air cut daggers through his dress blues.

"Gentlemen, tonight we embark on a mission not of pride, and some would not even say for our fine country. Tonight we embark on a mission to guard our allies, to protect all things the American people stand for: that of liberty, justice, and a future to look forward to! A future that doesn't wave under the flag of totalitarianism, but that of democracy!"

"The LC should be a journalist with this fancy talk." The soldier to Clint's left, Dan Sabin, cast him a wry smile and rolled his eyes skyward. Clint followed his gaze and saw the gas bag inflating above him, the off-white material slowly unfurling beneath its rigid structure and filling out the gaps between the light gundecks. From his vantage point Clint could scarcely make out the radio tower and aiming platforms cast high above his head, but soon the inflating balloon obscured them from his view.

"Yeah, he's quite the poet," Clint called back in a lull in Edwards' speech as the officer composed himself, pushing his barrel-shaped chest forward for another rousing spate of sentences.

"You, the young men of America, answered the call. You have dedicated yourself to the cause of freedom and the freedom of your fellow man. Let us unite in our aid of common good, and sail forth in haste!" Edwards roared above the screaming wind, and Clint reached up to make sure his hat was still on his head. _What a day to set sail!_

"Haste is right!" Sabin groused, running his hands up and down his arms. "You'd think we're off to plug up some Germans, not escort a few Limey ships."

"He makes them both sound very flattering." Clint shoved his hands in his pockets, desperately trying to bring feeling back into his frigid fingers.

By the time the LC had dismissed the soldiers Clint's hat was a soaked, misshapen lump sliding off of the side of his head. He gave the white fabric a few good wrings as the soldiers made a mass exodus to their quarters. Clint didn't pity the radiomen and the gunners who took to the ropes instead, casting baleful glances at the seamen who would retreat to the quiet and warmth of their quarters for the night.

"Glad I turned by nose up at that sort of work!" a seaman called from the crowd as boots pounded against the iron steps. The cluster of men descended below sea level into the mess hall, shoving their way past the tables and benches in the direction of the cheerily lit crew's quarters. The chatter reached a deafening level as sailors poured into the barracks, each yammering about one thing or another. A few young-looking boys had grins plastered across their faces, the mere prospect of setting off at sail enough to bring a twinkle to their eyes. A serious-faced bunch were discussing the lieutenant commander's speech as if it were an essay about Shakespeare – they looked like the ones who had gone to college, or had some semblance of an education before the war cut it short.

"Load of tosh, if you ask me," one man rolled his eyes as he peeled off his socks, each woolen undergarment draining enough water to fill a bathtub. Clint's toes were practically swimming. "All the bull about our country and our duty. Give me a Kraut or a Jap and I'll shoot him!"

"Can you believe it?" Clint's bunkmate, whose name he hadn't taken the time to learn, grinned down at him with eyes the size of saucers. He ran a hand over his stubbly beard, gazing off into the distance, a very scenic steel-gray wall. "We're off to England. Off with a cause, a purpose."

"Yeah, leave it to the English to need help carrying the stuff _we're_ sending them!" Sabin strolled over in his soaked undershirt, which clung to his skin like a glove. His socks slapped against the floor like paddles with every step. "All the same, it'll be nice to see the good ol' United Kingdom. The National Gallery, Big Ben... Very scenic."

"C'mon, let's be honest!" Clint slugged him on the shoulder. "The only reason you want to go to London is because of all of the girls there. Besides, the Gallery's been emptied by now."

"Ah. Right. Think of all of those poor London girls, their sweethearts away sweating in the Sahara, when suddenly a handsome sailor boy swoops in with a smile and a rather spiffy-looking uniform..." Sabin grinned roguishly, planting his hands on his hips and winking with an exaggerated manner in the direction of some imaginary dame.

Clint swung down onto his bunk, propping his feet up on the bars. "Maybe handsome is a more subjective term overseas."

"You take that back, Barton!"

A scuffle ensued, with both sailors boxing each other around the ears a few times before they rolled to the side, panting and making amends. Clint wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a few bills exchange hands.

"We're off to London, boys!" a booming voice called from the other side of the barracks, bringing a rousing cheer from the sailors as they pulled on dry uniforms. A spate of applause rose from the rowdier of the group, and Sabin slapped his socks against the ground in approval.

A gust of cold wind billowed into the barracks as a rain-soaked radioman staggered in, clutching his hat to his head firmly. "The ballonets are filled! Any of you want to come out and see the launch?"

"I just got dry!" one man objected, followed by a wave of grousing.

"This is the Navy, landlubber! Did you think we'd be ballooning around the desert?"

With a chorus of grumbles spreading through the crew's quarters, the soldiers relished their last few moments of warmth before heading for the doors again, feeling the ever-so-slight lurching of the _Reuben James_ beneath their feet as it rose to the air.

Clint ran for the railing immediately, swinging his head forward to see the buildings of Naval Air Station Pasco falling beneath his feet into a misty haze. Strong tethers of winding rope stretched up from the gloomy surface, unwinding quickly as the helium in the ballonets pulled the ship skyward. Thankfully the massive balloon shielded Clint and the other sailors from some of the rain, but a stinging burst of precipitation still barraged him from a variety of angles as the _Reuben James_ rose higher and higher. Clint tightened his grip on the rail as the ship lurched, finally reaching the end of its tether to the Air Station.

Sabin and a cluster of other sailors joined Clint at the rail, leaning their heads backward to see if they could make out the sky control and airsearch towers. Edwards and the lot of the important Navy officials stood at the top of the _Reuben James_ , commanding their less-thans in a visible hierarchy. A few gunners scampered about the ropes, folding away the cannons into their locked position for flight. The blast of a horn thundered above the clattering of chains, and Clint watched as the ropes fell away from the ship's hull, whipping back and forth in the mist before dangling out of sight.

A shout of excitement tore free from his throat as a battle cry rose from the deck of the ship, sailors waving their hats back and forth as the nose of the balloon angled itself eastward towards London, drifting forward into the night. Closing his eyes, Clint rested his hands on the rail and inhaled deeply, the briny scent of the ocean clearing his mind.

 _Free. I'm finally free._

-o0o-

Naturally, Clint was chosen for lookout duty on his first night at sea. He didn't really mind, because it gave him an excuse to learn the ways of the ropes days before the other seamen would. A tired-looking radioman by the name of Bridges gave Clint a quick rundown on the features of his undress uniform, which was worn at sea.

"Your jacket is the most important part of your getup when you're climbing the rigging," Bridges explained, gesturing to the black leather bomber that hung from his shoulders. Clint had received a similar jacket the day he was assigned to the _Reuben James_ , but he hadn't had the time to truly examine all of its features.

"There's a strap of fabric that runs around your chest and hooks _here._ " Bridges pointed to a carabiner clip protruding from a small puncture in the leather where his zipper was. "You'll use this to maintain a safety line when you climb manually. And, if you're authorized, automatically." A conspiratorial light flashed in the radioman's eyes, and Clint raised an eyebrow.

"Automatically, huh? How's about you give me a demonstration? No one's around to see us, anyways."

Clint knew this Bridges fellow had nothing to lose – it was a night watch on their first day out at sea, the ship was in no danger whatsoever. What was the harm in having a little fun, anyways? Thankfully Bridges seemed to think so too, and he led Clint over on the deck to a series of rigging lines that stretched upward to the balloon of the ship.

"These are your standard rigging lines, rope ladders. You'll be climbing them like a monkey by the time we hit the coast. And here is the metal safety line you'll hook onto when you climb. Pretty standard stuff. But this," He nodded towards a small crank at the bottom of the safety line. Bridges flipped a small switch and an amber light bloomed behind a bulb. Taking the crank in both hands, Bridges gave the gears a few good turns and the safety line started to rotate on its own, at first slowly but them gaining speed. The Radioman gave Clint a sardonic salute before snapping his hand forward almost too quickly for Clint to follow, hooking his carabiner into a metal loop and rocketing up to the balloon like a missile. He reached the first gundeck in seconds and unhooked himself easily, landing with a flourish visible from Clint's vantage point a hundred yards below.

"See? Easy!" Bridges' voice called down faintly, and Clint grinned. Now _this_ was what he had signed up for. He was only outfitted in his deck uniform, though, which didn't have the supports of the jacket. Unwrapping his carabiner from his belt, flipped the safety line's motor off and started up the rigging hand over hand, climbing higher and higher above the deck of the Reuben James.

Wind tore at his hair and clothes as he ascended, and he looked over his shoulder to see a sweeping view of the ocean from every side. Moonlight glanced off of the crests of the waves, dappling the water in a silver sea. Stars beamed like lightbulbs with a burning intensity, filling the midnight-blue sky with tiny points of light. He clenched his fists around the rigging ropes as he risked a glance down – the safety rope would keep him from any real danger, but it would be a long way down to the faces of the waves.

Bridges called for him to hurry up, so he scrambled up the last part of the ropes and reached the first gundeck with relative ease. He accepted Bridges' hand and stood, surveying his position at the top of the world with a grin.

"Some view, isn't it? Bet you can't get a better lookout at Adolph's Eagle Nest." Bridges turned on his heel and rapped a knuckle against one of the metal lockers stowed against the side of the balloon. "This is where we keep the light guns, mostly for fending off planes at this level. Submarine stuff is on deck. If a meager seaman like you ever needs to unlock a gun, just push your weight at the bottom of the locker."

Fixing his heel against the edge of the barrier, Bridges braced his shoulder against the sleek metal locker and leaned forward. A mechanism clicked beneath the surface of the metal and he stepped away rapidly before the flat surface sprang inward and a pair of 40-millimeter guns swiveled forward, rotating on a base of wires and grinding gears that latched free from the locker's wall in an instant. A metal tub stood behind the guns where the gunners would fire. Clint could tell they were recycled from the Great War, due to the liberal amount of rust that the seamen hadn't been able to scrub off, and the fact that they had to be operated manually.

"They're buckets of rust, but about the best we could wrangle from the isolationist chumps." Bridges rapped a knuckle against the metal, his expression souring. "They didn't want escort ships to be _armed,_ can you imagine? I'd hate to have one of those buckets of lard as a G.I. You volunteer?" He gave Clint a sharp sort of look.

"Quick as I could."

"That's what I like to hear. I hate to vent to you, but it eats me up when those politicians blather on about morality and the greater good. Poland and France've been crushed, Lord knows what Japan is doing to those colonies in the east, and Hitler's gearing up for more. They didn't want us to send aid to England!"

"And here we are now." Clint rested an arm against the 40-mill, his eyes tracing its corroded barrel. "I almost wish I had been trained a gunner, so I could man one of these against the Axis blokes."

Bridges dropped a shoulder under the gun barrel and pushed up, wheeling the gun back into its locker with a smooth hiss of hydraulic steam. Clint ducked as the metal swung wide over his head, the guns folding back into the locker and the doors shutting with a firm _click!_ "These guns won't do much against a plane anyways, the Great War weapons are as accurate as a spitball. But you, seaman, need to man your post. Want me to finish giving the tour and leave you on your sorry lonesome?"

"I've been waiting for you to ask all night!" Clint groaned, and Bridges clapped him on the back with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.

"I've taken a liking to you, seaman, so tell you what... Want to see something most men of your pay grade would give their right arm to lay eyes on?"

"The Ark of the Covenant?"

"Some comedian." Bridges clipped his carabiner to the safety line of the closest set of ropes and leaped over the barrier, snagging the rigging in both hands with practiced ease. Clint followed suit, tugging on his safety line to make sure it was fixed before he gingerly climbed over the railing and followed after Bridges. The wind pulled at the ropes and Clint's legs were beginning to throb as they ascended above the second gundeck and around the swell of the balloon, reaching above it to the top of the _Reuben James_. Rubber squeaked beneath Clint's boots as his feet made contact with the top of the zeppelin's balloon.

The safety lines of the rigging ran all the way to the top of the ship, where a mass of lookout towers, battle stations and the prickling antenna of a radar system loomed. Bridges raised an arm to shield his face from the biting wind and gestured Clint over to the front of the balloon, which made for a difficult journey with gale-force winds tearing at them from all sides, but Clint finally reached a small platform at the very front of the ship before the balloon dipped downward into a cone.

"Best seat in the house!" Bridges shouted, and Clint squinted to see into the horizon, where the ever-darkening sky blended almost seamlessly into the choppy waves below. The stars lay before him like a vast panorama, undisturbed in eerie silence, and a grin split Clint's face as he watched. Here he was on top of the world, here he was truly invincible. The war blended away into the shadows of the night, the thrill of flying filling his body with heady euphoria.

"Don't tell the LT I let you up here, or I'll get a good licking. This is my favorite part of the ship, the best view in the world. If you stay up here long enough I'll bet you'll see us meet up with the Brits. But you didn't hear it from me." Bridges raised his eyebrows, and before Clint could respond he had turned and hurried off to the side of the balloon, the hiss of the metal safety line trailing after him as he activated the motor and rocketed down to another deck.

Clint knew he shouldn't linger – it wouldn't be very soldierly of him to spend his first night on patrol stargazing – but he hesitated a moment longer, looking to the distance to make out the faded shadow emerging from the horizon. The smudge of darkness began to swell into view, revealing the pointed frame of a British cruiser, a column of black smoke trailing in its wake. Even from a distance, Clint could see the ship was massive, laden with tons of American supplies and rations to bring back to the British Isles.

Clint waited for a second longer before turning away from the stern and hurrying back to the gundeck to start his patrol. It was his first night on the job, after all, and he wasn't letting anything get in his way.

* * *

 _LC - Lieutenant Commander; LT - Lieutenant_

 _Isolationism - a policy of remaining apart from the affairs of other countries. Popular in the early years of World War II in the United States._


	5. The Beginning of the End

_"What America needs today is a good five cent war song._

 _The nation is literally crying for a good, peppy marching song,_

 _something with plenty of zip, ginger, and fire."_

 _\- Congressman J. Parnell Thomas_

* * *

 _New York City; July 11, 1941_

Steve and the doctor found themselves holed up in a small, cramped cafe on 28th Street, owned by an immigrant family he had gotten to know well over the years. The Wanatabes had always provided Steve shelter from the bullies of his youth, and they had been close ever since. The shop was a hodgepodge of all sorts of furniture, cramped together so tightly there was hardly space between the tables and poufs. Steve claimed a spot by the window, a cracked leather booth that provided some shelter from the bustle of the cafe's customers and from any eavesdroppers.

Erskine maneuvered his way around the variety of sofas and footstools that decorated the floor of the cafe, giving Steve a vexed sort of glare. "It's a unique place, isn't it?" he commented, eyes following the string of lanterns and decorations strewn across the walls of the cafe. The menu was just as diverse as the décor – Erskine ordered a cup of black Viennese coffee from the Wanatabes' youngest daughter, and Steve followed suit.

"Tell me, Steven," Erskine leaned in closer to be heard over the yammering clamor of the cafe's customers, "Why do you patronize this cafe especially?"

"Oh, that's easy." Steve leaned back against the leather of the booth, nodding his head towards the window. "I've known the Wanatabes for a while, but I really come here for the music. Can you hear it?"

The pounding of pianos thundered from every inch of 28th Street, filling it with raucous energy as swing tunes mingled and collided with each other. Musicians studied sheet music and drew their fingers across the keys, crashing rhythms blending with each other in one grand American songbook. With all of the songs playing at once, the cacophony sometimes turned into a miserable mess, but Steve could still appreciate the tunes free of charge – or rather, for however much Viennese coffee cost.

"It's hard not to," the doctor grumbled, but not unkindly. "You are a fan of swing music, then?"

Nodding quickly, Steve's eyes focused on some distant scene beyond a mobile of origami cranes. "Sure do. Bucky – a friend of mine – he's always taking the girls dancing, but he'll be off on the _Repulse_ soon. I guess it'll be my turn to pick up a real New York dame. Only problem is, I'm afraid she'd step on me!"

"It is a nice tune." Erskine's lips twitched up into a smile. "Learning the songs, hmm?"

"Just waiting for the right one to come along. A song or a dame, I suppose."

Their coffee arrived and Erskine took a small sip, raising his cup in a toast. "To new friendships?"

Steve tipped his glass against Erskine's and watched as the doctor sipped his coffee, emotions drifting across his stormy eyes as he turned to the street. His head angled to the side as a somber melody rose above the bouncing, jaunty tunes. "You know that song, Steven?"

"I don't think so. I've never heard it played before." Now that he focused on it, the piano seemed to strain in a bitter, sardonic way, clear notes warped by a sharply minor tune.

"It's from the Merry Widow, Herr Hitler's favorite. How I loathe that tune..." Erskine's voice dropped to a low growl, and Steve leaned in closer.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, why exactly have you come to America?" He lowered his tone to a whisper, hardly audible over the chatter and the thumping of piano keys around the street.

"I have come here, Steven, because I have the key to win the war." the doctor replied, his expression drawn and utterly serious. "I sacrificed everything to escape from Germany, and even in here America nowhere is safe. I do not tell you this to frighten you, but there are many in Germany who want me dead."

Steve's blood ran cold – was this unassuming doctor a fugitive of Nazi law? This encounter was only getting stranger and stranger. "What do you mean, sir? What's the key to winning the war?"

Erskine reached down to his side, lifting a small briefcase from the floor and placing it on the table. The leather was worn and cracked, the corners split from wear. Raising an eyebrow at Steve, Erskine twiddled with a set of dials and cranks on the handle of the case, some sort of complex locking mechanism. The doctor's fingers danced across the dials, and soon he spun his wrist and opened the briefcase to show Steve.

Six slender vials sat in a bed of black velvet, each depressed into a snug niche. The liquid in the vials was a dull, dark blue, rippling slightly from the jostling of the case. Steve reached forward and brushed his hand against one of the vials, feeling the cool glass beneath his touch, but Erskine's cargo didn't seem particularly dangerous.

"What is it? Some sort of explosive?" Steve gazed at the vials with increased scrutiny as Erskine folded the briefcase shut and placed it beside his feet with expert care.

"Not an explosive, Steven. All will be revealed in time. Now, I ask that you come with me one place more – nevermind about the bill, I'll pay for it. Don't protest!" The ghost of a smile flickered across the doctor's lips. His mood had grown far more serious since he had revealed the mysterious vials, and Steve was itching to know what was inside of them. This little adventure beat frequenting every enlistment booth he happened upon, if only slightly.

They hurried out onto the streets, the pounding of the pianos washing over them as Steve and the doctor scanned the streets for a taxicab. Steve could afford taxis only rarely, but Erskine appeared to be more well-off than he looked. After tipping the cabbie a handsome sum, the car sped off through the streets like a demon was snapping at its bumper, tearing between lanes and driving with a ferocity Steve hadn't seen in most soldiers. The screech of tires and fluent swearing of the cabbie drowned out the pianos as they tore away from 28th Street, thrown into the fervor and energy of Koreatown. Steve's nose pressed against the cold glass of the cab as the brilliantly colored buildings flashed by, soon replaced by monoliths of steel. If he craned his neck back far enough he could make out the spire of the Empire State Building – no zeppelins had docked yet, but a flurry of smaller aircraft buzzed around the spire.

The cab screeched to a halt as a cluster of sharply dressed businessmen cut across the street, yammering to each other and brushing off their crisp black suits. The cabbie threw his body onto the horn and a piercing wail blared after the men long after they entered their building. Huffing with indignation, the cabbie thrust his foot down onto the pedal and tore off with a screech of rubber, plunging down the street once again.

Erskine turned to Steve, holding his hat onto his head with one hand and looking slightly ill. "Tell me, Steven. You want to serve in the military, do you not?"

"Yes, more than anything!" Steve called back over another horn blast.

"Didja 'ear that? He wantsta serve!" The cabbie roared with laughter, drawing a deep breath from his cigar. A cloud of foul smoke trailed into the backseat, and Steve waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the stink. "Yer lucky, sonny! Not getting ya brains shot out by the Japs, yer lucky!"

"I noticed you haven't enlisted, either," Steve replied curtly, and the cabbie's already red face turned eggplant purple. He huffed and slid the partition shut between the front and back seats, allowing Steve and Erskine to carry on their conversation without interruption.

"You're willing to die for your country, Steven? Even after it's scorned you?"

Steve ran his tongue across his teeth, trying to come up with an appropriate answer. "I guess you're right. I've had a lot taken from me – my parents, my home, and now my best friend. I've been kicked around, but I've learned from those kicks." He gestured down to his worn slacks, the peeling leather of his shoes. "I can do this all day."

"And do you want to go to war to kill Nazis? For the thrill?" Erskine's eyes drilled into Steve's solemnly.

"I don't want to kill anyone, sir. I don't like bullies, and I don't care where they're from."

"Yes, I saw." Erskine replied, clenching his door handle as the cabbie wheeled around the corner of West 47th Street. "You are a good man, Steven. Better than many I have met in this country and beyond."

Steve shook his head, the compliment falling flat as enlistment posters and soldiers in uniform began to clutter the street. "There's lots of good men out there, sir. But they're off at war and I'm stuck here."

"Believe me, if all goes to plan, you won't be stuck here much longer."

-o0o-

The taxi dumped Steve and Erskine onto the pavement with a jolt. The doctor paid far too much for the fare – Steve wondered if he was familiar with American money, and he had heard that it took thousands of Reichsmarks to pay for a single American dollar back in Germany. The cabbie tipped his hat at Erskine in appreciation and tore down the pavement out of sight.

Erskine gestured Steve forward, and he looked upward to a view that felt like a punch in the gut. A recruiting center stood to the side of Times Square, larger than any he had frequented before, the side decorated with a massive American flag. Soldiers and civilians alike mingled around its doors, the latter of which looking distinctly noble as they dawdled before entering. A cluster of giggling girls stood to the side, casting admiring glances as the men and ducking away when any of their looks were returned. Erskine pushed his way through the throng and the rows of chairs for the physical test, bypassing any of the necessary stages of paperwork and fitness. Steve trailed after him, tugging at the doctor's sleeve in confusion.

"Um, sir, don't we have to check in and take a physical? And I haven't got my paperwork with me." What he really meant was he hadn't been able to forge another set since his last stint at the Trenton station, which had ultimately ended in another denial.

"There is no need, Steven. Come!" At the back of the recruitment station, past a pair of bored-looking MP's, stood a large wooden door with a golden placard as its only decoration. The name _Colonel Chester Philips_ was engraved in the card, and Steve found himself straightening to attention just like the MP's. Erskine barged past the soldiers like he owned the place, not even bothering to knock as he opened the door to the Colonel's office. Steve noticed a different sort of expression on his face, eyes glittering with excitement as he hurried into the office.

A gruff-looking, square-jawed man in a crisp military uniform looked up from his desk, eyes dark and almost sorrowful as they stared into Steve's. If Steve's own eyes weren't fooling him, he almost recognized a flash of recognition cross the man's features before vanishing as quickly as it had come. His gaze wandered to Erskine and he stood slowly, confusion etched across the lines of his face.

"Doctor, I'm glad to see you arrived safely. Those U-boats are giving our transportation to Europe a world of trouble." The colonel gripped Erskine's hand and pumped it vigorously, then turned to Steve. Every motion bled red, white and blue, a sharp pivot that could be measured in exact degrees. "Have we made any progress with Project Rebirth?"

Steve glanced at Erskine, although the colonel's eyes still drilled into his. The doctor stepped forward and rescued Steve from the blistering gaze of the military man. "Project Rebirth is the reason I have come here today. Tell me, aren't you tired of this dull recruiting station?"

The colonel's face cracked an emotion as a smile split his face. "You know it. I've spent all day having to turn down guys like him." He pointed at Steve, who sagged beneath the colonel's stabbing finger. "The worst part of it is, they're the ones who really want to get out there and fight. Isn't that so, son?" Philips rocked back on his heels and observed Steve's physique again. His eyes barely seemed to flicker from Steve's worn shoes to his head, and Steve's cheeks flushed with anger and shame.

"You speak too hastily, colonel. Steven Rogers here is going to win us the war. _He_ is Project Rebirth."

The room fell silent – completely, utterly silent. To the colonel's credit, he didn't backtrack on his previous comments. Instead he raised his chin and stuck out his hand for Steve to shake. Steve's hand was gloved in Philips', and he couldn't keep his grin from his face. He was shaking hands with a bona fide Army colonel! The reason _why_ eluded him. What had made the colonel change his mind so quickly?

"Steven Rogers, well met. Has Erskine briefed you on the details of your mission?"

"Pardon me, sir, but my _mission_? I'm not a member of the Army."

"Are you?" Philips turned to his desk, a sharp half-pivot, and he pulled a thick folder from the top of a neat stack of papers. Steve's heart sank when he saw the multitude of papers sandwiched between the manila folder – stacks and stacks of enlistment forms, from every time Steve had attempted to join the ranks of the Army. His name was plastered across many of the papers, along with many others he didn't recognize. Names upon names, all men who hadn't fit the bill for soldiering. "I've been waiting for you to show up in the Times Square station for a while now, Rogers. You and the rest of my friends in this folder. How many times is it now, seven? Eight? And that's just in New York. It's a crime to falsify your enlistment form."

Steve mimicked Philips' gesture, raising his chin to meet the eyes of the colonel. He would let his actions speak for themselves.

"Ordinarily, I would send you off like all of the rest of the boys. But eight enlistment forms in eight different cities? That takes gumption. I don't know what Erskine sees in you from the week that he's been in the States, but I take it that you're something special, son."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good." Philips reached upward and pulled gently on a light fixture attached to the ceiling, then gestured behind his desk. "Let's take this conversation somewhere more private, shall we?"

Steve gave Erskine a confused glance, craning his neck to see the colonel step downwards behind his desk and out of sight. When he walked behind the desk he noticed that a panel of the floor had fallen away, revealing a descending staircase illuminated by harsh white lightbulbs. He was still mulling over the fact that there was a secret passage in the colonel's recruitment office as he took a careful step down, almost expecting something to jump out at him. Erskine's footsteps echoed behind Steve as he descended. Philips had to duck under the lintel of the underground room, but Steve's forehead wasn't in the near vicinity of the wood frame.

"Welcome to our base of operations. Well, one of them. The rest are classified." Erskine and Philips shared a chuckle, and Steve's jaw dropped as he looked around the massive underground room. As opposed to the stark lighting of the staircase, the room was rather homey-looking, with brick walls and concrete floors like a sort of gymnasium. Rows and rows of files stood around a central table, covered with maps and pins and all sorts of symbols that Steve couldn't hope to decipher.

What awed him most, though, were the machines. A massive printing press sat huddled in a corner, spitting out leaflets faster than two girls in Army blouses could collect them. Figures of warplanes dangled from the ceiling while officers mulled over armor-piercing rounds, and scuttling machines scampered up and down the filing cabinets, drawing creamy manila folders from the stacks of paper within. Steve wondered if his folder had been filed in this very bunker.

"This is where Project Rebirth was founded." The colonel tipped his hat to a few passersby as he led an awe-stricken Steve across the floor. "Erskine and I will introduce you to one of our chief sources of funds for the project."

"It's as Howard always said – experiments failed for being incorrectly calculated, but never because they were too ambitious." Erskine laughed again, looking like a new man. All of the stress of the streets of the city had melted away, and he held his precious suitcase loosely at his side. After escaping the Third Reich, who wouldn't feel at ease here?

Steve found himself grinning as he observed the energy of the bunker, the determination etched on every face as he passed. "Forgive me, sir, but I don't believe you've told me what Project Rebirth _is._ "

Philips waved his hand. "In time, in time. Ah, Howard! I'd like you to meet our young patriot!"

From behind a precariously leaning stack of boxes Steve saw a head jerk upward. A rather rumpled-looking man stepped outward from behind his desk, which was leaning inward from the weight of its load. His face was young, but a severe frown offset his boyish features. Philips shook the man's hand firmly, and Steve followed suit.

"What's wrong, Stark? Cat got your tongue?" Philips released a rumbling laugh, and the man's frown deepened even more.

"I wish it were so. Just got off of a plane ride from Italy – Tony was trying to sell his designs to the Fascists."

"Well, that's disquieting." The colonel crossed his arms, but Howard waved off his concern.

"He's just an insolent child crying for attention when he least deserves it. I set him straight."

"Right, then. Steve Rogers, meet Howard Stark. The best mechanical mind this world has ever seen, and he's volunteered to help give Project Rebirth its final push forward."

"And some generous funding," Stark responded, but his off-putting manner had relaxed significantly. He shook Steve's hand a second time, this time with a slight smile on his face, and Steve was so shocked he could hardly pull his arm up to meet his handshake.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, are you _the_ Howard Stark?" Steve couldn't believe his eyes. What had Erskine gotten him into? First a U.S. Army bunker, then the most talented machinist to ever walk the earth! He had idolized the designs of Stark for years, and his feeble attempts at replicating any blueprints never could quite surpass the prowess of the man's mechanical genius. _What is going on?_

"So you know of me?" Stark looked rather impressed with himself. "Usually my work flies too far under the radar for my liking."

Erskine snorted with quiet disbelief. "Any other man would be satisfied but you, Stark."

"Ah, Erskine!" Howard reached forward to shake the doctor's hand as well. "Never could quite get you to come over to the mechanical arts, could I?"

"Perhaps it was for the best. I have some very vital information on my person at the moment, as luck would have it. Is there a more secure place where we could proceed with this conversation?" Erskine nodded his head in the direction of the Army men and women who had paused their tasks to watch the conversation unfold. Immediately a sea of heads ducked down as they continued on their way, acting as if they hadn't been eavesdropping.

"What is it your signs say? Loose lips sink ships? Rather catchy." The doctor smirked, and Philips directed the group to an adjacent room. A film projector rattled in the corner, loose negatives slapping against the metal, but other than the machine the men were alone.

Philips pulled out a chair and the rest followed, Steve feeling quite small in the presence of such powerful companions. What would bring an Army colonel, a German biologist, and an American mechanic together?

 _Nothing good,_ a voice whispered in his head. He pushed the thought away.

"Steve Rogers, you are here as the turning point of the war. Isolationism grips our country. People are too afraid to go off and enlist, even when Hitler swallows up all of the countries he can reach. American soldiers need someone to rally behind. A fighter, a moral beacon of hope and everything America embodies. They need a face to tie with the flag of freedom." Philips' tone was gruff and grim as he seated himself on of the spindly-legged chairs scattered across the room.

"To put it simply, we want you to be that face." Stark added, sitting stiffly in his chair with a certain air of urgency about him.

Steve looked down at his hands, which were clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles had whitened. "I don't think I understand, sir. I've been rejected for service every time I – well, I mean, when I tried to enlist." Stark raised an eyebrow and exchanged a knowing look with Philips.

Erskine leaned forward, looking Steve square in the eye. "Tell me, Steven. What do you think makes a good soldier? A true hero, someone to look up to? Bravery? Valor?"

"Oh, certainly, sir." Steve nodded. In truth, he'd thought about this question many times. "I like to think it's not so much of the brawn of a man that makes him, but his character. When the enemy's running at you with a bayonet, your brawn doesn't matter so much as your determination to stick him before he can stick you. Fighting for someone other than yourself. Maybe not fighting at all, if it comes to that."

Philips' brows furrowed. "You don't believe we should win this war with fighting?"

"As much as I wish we didn't have to, I know we do. That's why I want to do my part and get out there myself, to be of some use." Steve's mind was running at a thousand miles per hour as he talked: was Erskine trying to get him into the Army? If this was some sort of plot by the doctor, what was with the talk of Project Rebirth? And how was Howard Stark, millionaire mechanics genius, involved? "Any use at all, sir." He finished rather lamely.

The colonel pursed his lips, as if processing what Steve had to say, then turned to the other men seated beside him. "All in favor?"

Three hands raised into the air, and Erskine gave Steve a not-so-inconspicuous wink.

"There you have it, then. Mr. Rogers, welcome to the U.S. Army."


	6. Prepare for Liftoff

_"Totalitarianism has abolished freedom of thought_

 _to an extent unheard of in any previous age..._

 _It not only forbids you to express - even to think - certain thoughts,_

 _but it dictates what you shall think."_

 _\- George Orwell_

* * *

 _New York State; July 12, 1941_

Howard had been more than livid. He had practically breathed fire down Tony's throat as he thundered with the roaring voice of some ancient deity, the room shaking beneath Tony's feet as he vented.

Yammering speeches about Fascists had ensued, about how America was rearing for war and Tony would be sent to prison for treason. He had flirted with prison for a while now, surely his father knew the threat of imprisonment couldn't scare him. Given a bobby pin and a few cogs, he could escape from any cell Howard could throw at him.

And then Howard had rushed off to the hangars with a huff. Some urgent telegram had caught his attention in the middle of his tirade, and Tony was grateful for it. It had flustered the impeccable composure of Howard Stark, which was nice to see every once and a while to prove to Tony that the man was actually human. Moreover, his father had actually given him a job. The smallest dirigible had to be prepared for flight immediately.

Howard _never_ entrusted such a task to Tony, who was still in shock as he relayed the command to the various ground crew members. The telegram must have been very important indeed if Howard was violating the unwritten rules of their twisted relationship. God forbid he treat his ne'er-do-well son with some measure of respect and responsibility for one. Sure, Tony was getting a savage sort of pleasure from this job. Was Howard finally acknowledging him for once?

As much as he wished these wild fantasies were true, an airship didn't change its stripes. Howard Stark was still Howard Stark. He must have some psychoanalytic, reverse psychology twist on this. Perhaps by pretending to give Tony a second's notice, he was only twisting the dagger deeper.

Tony could ignore this jab, however, as he ran down to the airstrip to watch the dirigible as it was towed from the various ballooning hangars that peppered the side of the property. Barely brushing the start of the treeline, the hangars stood like luminescent globes in the brisk wind. A cheery golden glow hummed from the farthest hangar, where the smallest craft was slowly being pulled out by the ground crew.

 _Small_ was a subjective term for Stark technology. The ship was easily as large as many of the Navy craft Tony had spotted in the New York harbors, its balloon neatly folded over the side and tied down with ropes. Following the taxi cars was a massive hose connected to helium stores in the hangars, which would propel the dirigible into the air. A graceful gondola swung beneath the enormous balloon, its sleek design branded with the noticeable Stark logo. There was one large contrast between the Navy ships and Stark ships – Howard's designs had no protective armor from aircraft or U-boat fire.

Tony couldn't help but look to the sea beyond the slope of the hill that led to the beachfront. To think that black shadows hung below the water, waiting for they prey to fall into their hands... It was all very glamorous.

"How goes it, young master?" A voice drawled from the top of the taxi car, and Tony looked upward into the grinning, gap-toothed face of one of Howard's groundsmen, Riggs or Briggs or something of the sort. They clasped hands in a firm handshake, with grease smearing across Tony's palm as their hands parted. "Are you taking her out for a spin?"

"Me?" Tony shook his head. "It would take five men to man her, and she can seat a hundred!"

"An' I got a telegram to bring out the small one..." The groundsman stroked his whisker-studded chin thoughtfully, leaving a stroke of black oil behind. "I heard your pops can pilot it all on his lonesome. Anyways, he's been fixin' it up for quite some time. Added on a lot of weight, we had to cut down on the frills. Any idea what the old man's planning?"

"I wish I knew." Tony shrugged, suddenly intrigued by this turn of events. First a mysterious telegram, then modifications on the dirigible Tony hadn't heard about. This was turning into a genuine Cary Grant mystery.

"I suppose you're inspectin'?" The groundsman called over his shoulder as he taxied away from Tony's position, lugging the massive airship after him.

Tony cupped his hands around his mouth so that his reply could be heard. "Suppose so!"

He had grown up around airships all his life, and Howard didn't skimp around with security or hiring professional personnel. There wasn't much supervising to do as the gondola wheeled directly in front of him, easily seventy yards long and two stories tall. Wide tinted windows stretched across the front to provide passengers with a sweeping view, but beyond the dining room and the sleeping quarters were the most impressive rooms the zeppelin housed – the laboratories. Howard was known to fly off above the property and gather data on weather experiments or take his most dangerous work out over the ocean to prevent any loss of life. Tony found himself hoping this certain expedition was one of the latter.

The mouths of the enormous hoses, each the size of a trash bin cover, were screwed into place as inert helium pumped into airship's balloonets. The extra load of whatever Howard had installed would require more helium to take off, which would mean less time for Tony to explore before his father flew back in from New York.

Unless he snuck into the gondola, that was.

The door to the zeppelin's interior was on Tony's far right, the entrance to the "cockpit" where pilots guided the massive balloon on its various journeys. Or Howard manned the entire thing himself, if rumors were true. Tony bet he could do the same just as easily as his father, but he wasn't too keen on going up alone. Especially after the Hindenburg went up in a firestorm, zeppelins seemed all the more dangerous, and yet all the more exciting. Glancing left and right to make sure no ground crew members were watching, Tony leaped up a few feet and swung the gondola's door open, sliding through the opening and into the cockpit in seconds.

He maneuvered his way out of the cockpit, which would reveal his position easily with its massive windows on all sides. Exiting towards the aft of the zeppelin, Tony passed through the navigation books with shelves stacked high with maps and legends, beyond the kitchen and the radio room and into the dining hall. Or what was left of the dining hall, he noted with shock.

Usually the zeppelin was outfitted with fine curtains and plush carpets in the dining room, with sweeping views of the ocean or the countryside, wherever the Stark family deigned. Now all creamy tablecloths and crystal glasses had been forgone, the carpet torn away to reveal open-faced steel. The tiers of stairs that stretched on the sides of the gondola had been outfitted as viewing platforms, with seats and protective shielding from the center of the dining hall.

In the middle of the room sat a strange circular contraption, with enough complicated machinery and wiring to keep Tony's head spinning for days. A challenge like this delighted him, and he hurried forward on tiptoe to observe the structure. Banks of monitors stretched in a circle, raised about a foot above the steel floor. Various dials and levers protruded from the metal surfaces, each meticulously labeled with engraved letters. Words stood forward in Tony's mind – Vita-Rays, overdrive, auxiliary power. What was Howard planning with this? He had been breaking into his father's laboratory for years now, and he had no idea what a Vita-Ray was. It was rather frustrating, not knowing things. How could ordinary people bear it?

At the center of this metal dais was what Tony could only label as a coffin. It was painted a muted blue, leaning back on a series of gears and metal joints bent backward to support it. Thick cords of wires curled into the coffin's base, stretching under the dais and presumably connecting to the monitors that surrounded Tony.

"What the hell?" he whispered almost reverently in the silence. This whole setup couldn't be more confusing. First Howard called for a private flight, after ripping up the dining hall and replacing it with some of the most complex machinery Tony had ever seen. What was going on?

"I hope you don't use language like that around our guests." A sharp voice sounded from the viewing platform, and Tony spat out another curse. Somehow Howard had snuck up on him while he was observing the machinery, and he would be in even more trouble than before.

"What is this?" Tony gestured to the circle of monitors, his eyes falling again on the metal coffin. Surely Howard wasn't so far gone to try to resurrect someone like in those Frankenstein films?

"You tell me. Use your intuition."

Tony rolled his eyes dramatically and slowly, hoping Howard could see in the dim light of the fading sun. His father loved these tests, to see if Tony could wrap his mind around a problem with machinery or intellect, from politics to curvilinear girders. After being chewed out for an hour about the problem of the Fascists, he wouldn't let Howard get the best of him this time.

Stirred on by this new purpose, he turned back to the monitors and studied the dials and levers. His hands grazed the cool metal as he turned in a slow circle and observed his surroundings. Frustratingly, none of the words stuck in his mind, each unfamiliar term slipping away into a mess of confusion. He was angry now, turning back to the metal coffin in search of answers. Howard enjoyed these challenges to test Tony's mind, but he also loved them because he won them often.

Two small metal arms stretched from the side of the coffin, each indented in three perfect circles on either side. A hydraulic pump, fashioned for small instruments, dangled disconnected beneath each indent. Reaching forward hesitantly, Tony grasped for a handle on the edge of the coffin and swung the front open to reveal a smooth metal interior, fitted with modest cushioning around the back and head. There was no doubt about it – the contraption was made for a person.

More metal arms unfolded from the inside of the coffin, with plates of metal bent inwards for storage. Tony grasped one and immediately pulled his hand back, a sharp pain piercing his finger as a globe of blood balanced on its tip. The metal plates were covered with miniature needles, blocked together to form one massive injection site.

The interior of the coffin was studded with another mind-bending addition – massive bulbs were set deeply into the thick metal. What could it all be for?

Sucking on his bleeding finger, Tony turned back to a blank-faced Howard leaning against the platform's banister. "Well, if I had to hazard a guess I'd say it's a very sophisticated, very painful tanning bed."

Howard released a long sigh through his nose. "This is your problem, son. You don't take these things seriously. There's a war going on in Europe, and you ramble on about tanning beds. Why won't you man up to your responsibilities for once?"

Tony knew better than to talk back, so he simply raised his chin and met Howard's burning eyes, black in the darkness. His father had been a serious man before the war, but ever since Poland had fallen a sense of urgency had taken over his work, his everyday life.

In a way, he was right. Tony had been tasked with preparing the zeppelin, but he had decided to sneak around instead. He banished this rogue thought as soon as it crossed his mind. He was only seventeen, still below enlistment age. Still a kid. Didn't he have the right to have a little fun once and a while? Besides, Howard would never let Tony do any real work, not even if it was for the war. The zeppelin inspection had been a rare mishap.

"Fine, whatever you say. What is it, anyways?" He nodded his head towards the coffin as a rushing sound gusted through the dining hall; the ground crew was beginning to inflate the zeppelin.

But Howard's little game had ended. He turned away from the dining hall, straightening his already impeccable cuffs and glowering down at his shoes. "Mind that you change before the guests arrive. We've having some Army officials over, and some other scientists of reputation. I'd prefer my son doesn't look like a bum."

Tony crossed his arms over his chest, scowling as Howard descended the stairs of the viewing platform. The man towered over him as he strode forward, each movement too graceful and precise to be natural. _Nothing_ about Howard was natural. "That's a _yes, sir_ from you."

Gritting his teeth, Tony forced as much spite into his words as he could muster. "Yes, _sir._ "

If Howard was offended by his obvious display of impudence, he didn't show it. Turning on his heel, he stalked away towards the cockpit and out of sight.

Tony spat after the man's heels when he was out of earshot. The zeppelin bobbed every so slightly under his feet, and the small rush of excitement was enough to take his mind from his grievances with Howard Stark. Tonight he would be a thousand feet in the air surrounded by gruff Army chumps. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could sneak a sip of champagne before Howard caught him.

Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.


	7. Rebirth

_"As long as there are sovereign nations possessing great power,_

 _war is inevitable."_

 _\- Albert Einstein_

* * *

 _The Atlantic Ocean; July 12, 1941_

The was no way around it – Steve was nervous. If his U.S. Army shirt hadn't been so baggy, its armpits would have been soaked in sweat. At the moment, the shirt's armpits were somewhere around his waist.

All of the clothes Erskine had given him were far too large, and when he asked about the sizes he had received a cryptic "You'll see," in response. The doctor wasn't doing much to help his nerves, and neither were the high-ranking Army officials stuffed into the zeppelin's central room.

The ship had docked in one of the Manhattan harbors after Steve had been briefed on the procedure and bedecked in his ill-fitting getup. Philips and Erskine had tumbled over each other for a brief explanation of their intentions – with Steve's consent, they were going to transform him into the greatest soldier America and the world had ever seen. Erskine had rambled on about biology and serums while Philips tried to justify his position from a military standpoint, how he respected Steve's free will, but didn't he owe something to the American people?

Frankly, Steve wouldn't care if they were going to throw him from the zeppelin into enemy territory armed with a single hand grenade. This was his opportunity, the light at the end of a tunnel that had seemed so distant for so long. He had signed the necessary forms with enough ferocity to punch his pen through the paper. Philips had insinuated some sort of combat experience, and Steve couldn't ask for anything more.

"It will not be a very comfortable procedure." Erskine had whispered to him on the ride to the harbor, the sleek government car gliding through afternoon traffic. "There will be rapid change as your body responds to the serum. The major injection sites will be –"

"Let's not frighten the boy too much, hm? He'll jump out of the car here and now." Philips added with a wry sort of smile that only made Steve more nervous. As much as his stomach writhed with stress, he couldn't help but look forward to what was to follow. The mystery of it all was simply unbearable, especially with the number of official-looking men milling about. Those who weren't in Army uniforms wore crisp, tailored suits, which made Steve look especially small and under-dressed beside Erskine. They must all be very important, riding in a private zeppelin to witness a science experiment.

"Relax. You're doing fine." The doctor whispered, exchanging a reassuring smile before reaching forward to shake hands with a diplomatic-looking fellow whose hair had most likely been parted with a ruler.

"So this is our super soldier. He's a bit scrawny, isn't he?" Philips and another colonel walked over to shake hands with Steve, the latter looking at Steve with his lip every so slightly curled. "How about those boys down at the fort that Queen Victoria was working on?"

"Some fluke of Erskine's. Good becomes great... I'm an Army man, not a biologist." Both men exchanged chuckles.

"Are you ready to represent your country, son?" Philips' comrade clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder.

"Yes, sir." Steve straightened to attention and snapped into a salute, earning another bout of laughter from the colonels. His face flushed scarlet as the two colonels laughed, but he fixed his eyes firmly on theirs and straightened his shoulders. These men were his superiors, after all. He owed them his respect.

He couldn't help but feel slightly discouraged by this turn of events. Erskine had made it sound like he would be a full-fledged Army man, but the colonels obviously thought he was playing soldier.

Steve scanned the crowd for any faces he recognized, but each hard-faced officer and bespectacled scientist seemed to blend together. He was surprised, then, when he looked up to the balcony of the zeppelin's room to see a young man leaning against the banister. He was wearing a suit and didn't seem to be very happy about it – in fact, every part of his getup seemed rumpled, from his hair to his shoes. Steve was considering going to talk to him when Erskine tapped his finger against his champagne flute to draw the attention of the assembled crowd.

Steve had never drunk alcohol in his life, but Erskine had made sure he didn't eat or drink anything before the procedure. The Viennese coffee at the Wanatabe's cafe wasn't enough to keep his stomach from growling violently.

"Attention, everyone. Attention, please. Thank you for coming today for this great leap forward in scientific progress. To those of you who are not on the prep team, please make your way to the viewing platform." A pleasant mumbling followed Erskine's command as the men cleared the floor and found seats above Steve's head. The cool metal beneath his bare feet made Steve shiver as Erskine directed Steve towards the center of the room, up a small step and into the center of a bank of monitors and levers.

"Mr. Stark, are our preparations ready?" Erskine queried as Steve observed his surroundings. Could there possibly be _more_ sharp, dangerous metal instruments in this procedure?

"In a few minutes we'll have taxied out to our location. Hopefully the power won't take the zeppelin down." Stark added almost as an afterthought, and Steve looked outside the windows over the pitch-black sky. The waves crashed far below his vantage point as the zeppelin drifted further out to sea. In no uncertain terms, Philips had explained to Steve that should something to go wrong with Project Rebirth, the effects could be disastrous. Better one zeppelin go down over the ocean than have civilians be harmed in a highly populated city like New York City.

All of these threats made Steve wonder if this was another test. Every eye was on him as Erskine and Stark prepared the various dials and levers, cranking gears and turning knobs. It all looked very complicated.

Taking up a microphone, Stark turned to the assembled crowd with a sweeping gesture. "In Project Rebirth, we intend to create a soldier the likes of which the world has never seen. That begins with physical strength. Doctor Erskine's formula will be injected into major muscle groups, and cellular change will begin immediately. To stimulate growth, the target will be saturated with Vita-Rays."

Steve's palms were clammy with sweat. He wiped them on his baggy slacks as Stark proceeded.

"Whenever you're ready." He gave Erskine a nod, then turned back to make minute adjustments on the monitors.

When Steve spun to follow Erskine's directions, he noticed the elongated metal box at the center of the contraption had been opened. Was he supposed to sit in that thing? A variety of metal plates had been drawn out from the box, with what looked to be needles protruding from one side. _Lots_ of needles.

Steve gulped, but he threw his chin up and stepped up a short platform and settled into the metal box. There was still plenty of space below his feet and above his head, and a choking fear began to rise up his body as Erskine looked down at him. "It's a little large," he managed a short laugh, and the doctor smiled.

Reaching over the metal sides, Erskine found a vein in Steve's arm and injected a syringe of mystery liquid. The pain was sharp but brief, and Steve released a relieved sigh.

"That wasn't so bad."

"That was penicillin." Erskine's face was grim, and Steve felt familiar worry come back to the forefront of his mind.

"Oh. Right."

"Steven, remember this. My serum is ultimate to this experiment's success, but it will do more than make you strong. Your character, your mind... Stay true to yourself, no matter what happens."

Steve's brows furrowed. "Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand –"

"All ready, Howard!" But Erskine had already turned away and given the Stark a signal. With a short hiss of steam the lid of the box began to slide shut.

Claustrophobia clawed at Steve's throat and he reached forward to feel the top of the box – no, the coffin – closing in on him from all sides, leaving him abandoned in the dark with the metal appendages whistling and whirring around him. Never had he been so intimidated by a machine before, but his mind was in the clutches of utter terror as his hands felt the lid of the box slide shut.

A single panel of glass separated him from the outside world, but it was too far above his head for him to see out of. His breath came short and his head spun; he was going to die in here.

Closing his eyes, Steve released a slow breath and clenched his fists. This was a problem larger than himself. He could withstand a little discomfort, he was stronger than that.

He hoped.

A mechanical whirring droned over his head as cold metal spun out from its closed position on his sides, large plates settling on his chest, arms, and stomach. The plates pressed closer and Steve winced as pinpricks of pain bloomed across his body; blood welled against his shirt as the needles were inserted. The pain grew from a gentle throbbing to a fiery intensity, and Steve clenched his teeth until his jaw ached as well. Fire seemed to spread across his body, singing his skin and searing his muscles until he could hardly keep the screams behind his teeth.

"All right in there, Steven?" A faint tapping echoed from beyond the walls of the metal death device, but Steve couldn't wrench a sound from his lips.

"Firing up the Vita-Rays now." The voice of Howard Stark followed Erskine's, and Steve shut his eyes quickly as the lightbulbs around the coffin's walls ignited, brighter than any he had ever seen in his life. The floodlights baked him, only adding to the lava-like agony that was tearing into his body. Every part of him seemed to be in rebellion, spasming under the gut-wrenching pain.

"Twenty percent... Thirty percent..."

The light was blinding, searing through Steve's eyes as it pulsed like a strobe. The metal coffin was becoming stiflingly warm, and each breath he took felt as if he was inhaling warm soup.

"Forty percent... Fifty!"

Every muscle was tensed, his mind floating above a haze of agony. The needles seemed to have turned into kitchen knives inserted into his flesh. Never had he experienced pain so acute, so intense, with every movement triggering an avalanche of fire across his body.

"Sixty... Seventy..."

Steve couldn't contain it anymore – he released a pent-up cry of fear and torturous pain, which echoed deafeningly in his ears. Another sound rumbled back at him, like someone was slapping their palm against the metal contraption. "Steven!" Then fainter, "Shut it off!"

"No!" Steve called back, hoping his voice didn't betray his desperation. "Keep going! I can do this!"

As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he wondered if he really could. As the Vita-Rays charred his skin and the coffin turned into a furnace, he wondered if he would escape from this ridiculous science experiment alive. Pain split his head like an ax and he clenched his teeth to hold back an animal cry, tightening his fists until his knuckles whitened.

"One hundred percent!" Howard's triumphant voice called from a distance, and the Vita-Rays blared so brightly Steve's vision was a wash of white. Every experience culminated in one, intense moment – the agony peaked, the heat skyrocketing until Steve was soaked in sweat, his body in rebellion as his muscles burned fiercely. He wanted nothing more than to leap from the coffin and run back to Brooklyn, hiding behind his machines and the newspapers that declared more and more casualties every day.

That was why he was here. He _could_ do this. After all, he hadn't died yet, had he? The morbid bit of humor allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face, and at the same time the first Vita-Ray bulb shattered.

Glass stung against Steve's skin and he turned his head away as the bulbs flashed and snapped one by one. An echoing pop sounded near his side as one bulb was forcibly thrown from its outlet, the searing glass burning into his unprotected side. Pressing the palms of his hands against the inside of the coffin, Steve stretched upward to see out of the thick glass, but his vision was obscured in darkness as all of the power to the zeppelin's lights blew with a resounding crash.

A hydraulic hiss hummed behind Steve's head as the sides of the coffin folded away to the blissfully cool air. He took in a breath and his head spun; his entire body was reeling and his vision refused to focus. Mixed with the sputtering lights of the zeppelin and the sea of muttering that filled the great room, Steve was disoriented and he wondered if he would throw up over his new Army digs.

Arms reached out to help him from the metal contraption, and he staggered forward onto his feet, dimly aware of the waves of whispers rushing out from where he stood.

He felt different. _Taller._ The faces that stared back at him were shocked and awed, and a few of the officers had grins plastered across their faces. As he watched some shook hands, some embraced, and one released a whoop and waved his hat in the air. What were they celebrating?

Almost reluctantly, Steve looked down. He had half-expected Erskine to have turned him into some sort of mutant science experiment, but the result of what had happened in that dark coffin made his jaw drop.

The baggy Army shirt now stretched across a broad chest, his arms bulging with muscles he certainly hadn't possessed before. He stood significantly taller than he had before, significantly _stronger_ than he was before, as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. Steve's head jerked upward and he turned to Erskine, who wore a pleasant expression on his face. His eyes shone with pride, and Steve started towards him.

Immediately the throng of people rushed forward, each one jerking their hand outward for Steve to shake, all yammering at one about the war and the Allies and the boys on the front lines. The reaction was overwhelming, and Steve backed away from their frantic gestures and incessant talking, trying to work his way over to where the doctor stood.

"The Krauts'll never know what hit them!"

"A genius, that Erskine is! A marvel!"

"If he stays on our side, we'll have dozens of these boys churned out by nightfall!"

As Steve glanced up to the balcony, he realized the only member of the zeppelin who wasn't tripping over themselves to greet him was the young man he had noticed before. Instead he watched with cool disinterest, arms crossed. The chatter of the cabin was interrupted by Howard raising a glass of champagne aloft, the drink spilling down the side in his haste.

"Here's to the war, my friends! And how much shorter it will last now!"

"Hear, hear!" the roaring cry thundered back. Someone shoved a glass of champagne in Steve's hand and he turned back to find out who it was – at that exact moment, the glass of the zeppelin exploded.

Shards of glass peppered Steve's back and arm as he was thrown away from the windows. A hail of fire filled the air and cries of pain rose above the chatter of gunfire, sparks scattering as the lead clanged against the steel of the zeppelin's interior. Anything above waist-level was mutilated by the barrage – Erskine's machine became unrecognizable in moments, and a massive explosion below the zeppelin's gondola forced Steve to his knees.

Crawling forward on his elbows and knees, Steve struggled over groaning bodies to reach Erskine. The doctor was sprawled backward, eyes wide and bulging with shock. His eyes widened even more when he saw Steve kneeling over him, taking in the results of his handiwork with one sweep.

"Steven... You must understand this!" Erskine's voice was laced with a hair-raising desperation as he clung to Steve's shirt. "My serum is powerful, yes, but it has side effects. You have grown in stature, but also in spirit."

The shouts were growing louder, the clamor as the zeppelin reeled away from whatever what attacking it. "What do you mean?" Steve shouted back. He grabbed Erskine's shoulders, noticing the pain in his dark eyes. The doctor's shirtfront was bathed in blood, with an inch-long shard of glass protruding from his abdomen. "Sir, please, you'll survive this. You can't give up now!"

Erskine's eyes brightened, but his laughter was bitter. "I knew this would happen since the moment I left Germany. It was inevitable. Steven, you remember what I told you before. Good becomes better..." Blood trickled down his chin, and his chest rattled.

"I remember, sir, I remember. Bad becomes worse." Steve gulped back a sob, watching the expressions twist across Erskine's face.

"Steven, promise me this. A dying man's wish. Stay true to yourself. You know why you were chosen? Not because you were particularly strong or brave, but because you were – _are –_ good. Stay... true..."

A bloodied finger tapped Steve's chest, then fell limp as Erskine sagged backward in Steve's arms. Burning tears streamed down Steve's cheeks as he shook the doctor's shoulders, searched his neck for a pulse, _anything_. Blank eyes stared back listlessly at him. Steve's hands were covered in his blood, he felt as if he was soaked in it.

This was _his_ fault. Erskine could have done so much more, and here he was thinking Steve could somehow turn the war around! It was hopeless, futile. Steve released a shout of rage, but it was lost in the tearing of the wind that whipped through the cabin and the percussive blasts of bullet after bullet tearing the zeppelin to shreds.

A hand grasped Steve's shoulder and yanked him away from the body. Steve's head jerked up with surprise to see the hard-set face of the boy on the balcony, looking down at him with cold determination. "Come on," he tilted his head in the direction of the front of the zeppelin. In three long strides he covered the distance to the doors, with Steve crawling behind him as quickly as he could. When he straightened up and reached the door, he looked back at the fallen body of the doctor, his friend. One hand was still raised ever so slightly, a harsh command given even after death had taken its toll. _Go!_

Steve chased the boy beyond tables stacked high with maps and books and into the cockpit. All of the glass had been blown out, covering the ground in a fine sheen of white like snow. Steve dove down again as a spray of fire snapped above his head, but the boy didn't even flinch as he reached upward to a small compartment in the upper half of the cabin. A service locker swung open and the boy pulled out a folded-up contraption. As Steve watched slim sheets of metal unfolded again and again, quickly framing the general shape of a glider. Besides the closer lattice of the metal that formed two back-to-back seats, the entire glider appeared incredibly light and equally unstable. Steve glanced down at his newly found height and size – how could a machine so lightweight support him?

"You'll be fine. This could hold the whole of Herr Goebbels' girth," The boy cast him a grin, startlingly at odds with the gravity of the situation. Another explosion rocked the zeppelin and threw Steve against the controls for the ship, which lurched wildly and dove downwards. Leaping forward for the levers, the boy quickly stabilized the airship as best he could in the jerky descent that was bringing the zeppelin closer and closer to the face of the waters.

"We don't have much time. I'll take the front seat with all the tools. Don't mess with anything and we'll be all right." Steve's eyes narrowed at the boy's casual, arrogant tone.

"Sure. Wouldn't want me fiddling with the elevator tab or the tail fairing." Steve ducked his head under the main battery of the glider, keeping his feet placed firmly on the undercarriage as the boy's mouth fell open with shock, then widened into a broad grin.

"The name's Tony, by the way!" He shouted over the wind, swinging himself into his seat in front of Steve. "In case we should both die in a few seconds, which is most likely the case, I figured it would be decent enough for me to admit that much to you. Well, shall we?"

Steve's jaw dropped as the glider inched forward towards the shattered window of the zeppelin. The nose and stunted wings of the contraption scarcely fit through the iron panes, and for a moment they teetered on the brink of falling into oblivion. _He's not seriously going to jump, is he?_

"Geronimo!" Tony shouted with a whoop, and together they teetered forward and fell into a steep nosedive towards the unforgiving black expanse of the sea.

* * *

 _Your feedback makes my day! What do you think so far? :)_


	8. A Rescue at Sea

_"We became men. The maturity of our seamen  
_

 _and officers after that... was entirely different._

 _We had grown up in seven minutes."_

 _Rear Admiral Julian T. Burke_

* * *

 _The Atlantic Ocean; July 13, 1941_

The fires racing across the zeppelin illuminated the shadow of the U-boat in the water. Clint barked out a curse from his position halfway up the rigging, squinting through a pair of binoculars that hung heavy from his neck. Swinging around on his heel, he gave the metal cord beside the rigging a hard yank and clipped in as the gears started to turn, whisking him down to the deck of the ship and sent him barreling into the engine room.

"There's a Kraut ship bombing out a zeppelin out there!" he shouted, then saluted a moment later. "Um... sir."

Edwards and the rest of his brass turned sharply to face Clint, eyes flinty and determined in seconds. "Wheel about. A Navy ship?" he asked Clint, striding towards the large bank of windows as the fiery wreck of the falling zeppelin came into view.

"Not that I can tell, sir. Looks like a personal craft." Ordinarily Clint couldn't be able to contain his excitement at standing beside the most important member of the _Reuben James_ ' crew, but this was no time for boyish sentiments. This was war, and there was a German U-boat lingering below the water taking American lives.

Edwards frowned, stroking his chin with eyes focused on the dark shadow illuminated by the flaming zeppelin. "A personal ship... Who in the States has enough dough for their own airship?"

"Since the last time I was on shore they were quite the novelty. What use do the Krauts have taking down a civvie ship?"

"The _Germans,_ seaman." Edwards chastised Clint, who rolled his eyes when the lieutenant looked away. "They've started attacking our shipping lanes, but this attack seems unprovoked."

"Should I contact them, sir?" a wide-eyed radioman swiveled away from his post, the winding cord of the radio trailing behind him. An explosion washed the cabin in red and Clint turned back to the window sharply.

Edwards leaped to the helm and his fingers danced across the controls, pulling the Reuben James in a gentle spin to face the other airship. "Do what you must! Tell the boys to man attack stations, but _do not fire!_ Protect the British merchant ships as a first priority. Barton, are you still there?"

"It would appear that way, sir."

"Take a few seamen for recovery. That airship will be coming down any minute now, and we need to be there to rescue any survivors."

"Yes, sir!" Clint snapped into a salute and tore out of the cabin, reaching down and hooking into his line. Kicking off from the side of the zeppelin, he ascended for a brief moment, cable buzzing behind him, until he was yanked sharply to the second gundeck. Already the decks were a frenzy of activity, with soldiers drawing the guns out of storage and aiming them for the U-boat with practiced precision. The screech of all hands roared above the wind.

"What's going on, Barton?" Sabin's anxious face shone in the moonlight as he frantically tried to strap his helmet on. Grabbing his arm, Clint swung over the barrier of the gundeck and pointed to the sea below them.

"Come with me! We need to get the survivors!"

As if on cue another explosion bloomed from the side of the civilian zeppelin, followed by a shrieking of metal as the enemy shells drilled into the fragile metal craft. The zeppelin's balloon had been hopelessly punctured and was already drifting towards the sea. Clint scoured the sea for any sign of civilians who had abandoned ship, but no heads bobbed above the waves. If they stayed in the cabin any longer they would be trapped when the zeppelin hit the water.

Clint snagged a passing radioman. "Call in support! We'll need someone to help the survivors!"

Sabin was already strapping on his harness, which wound around his legs and chest to keep him secure for a drop below the main body of the ship. He pulled the cords tightly, giving them a firm tug as Clint threw on his own digs. The canvas cinched in all the wrong places, but it would keep him supported when they had to make a dive for the water.

"There!" Sabin shouted, and Clint pivoted in time to see a small shape emerging from the pilot's cabin of the zeppelin. It bobbed forward for a moment before falling into a steep dive for the sea, barely pulling up above the waves. Stubby wings skimmed the surface of the water, pulling away from the black form of the submarine and out of harm's way, directly beneath the Reuben James.

"It's a glider!" Leaning over the rail, Sabin peered beneath the boat to see the progress of the small craft.

"And it's gonna crash soon," Clint replied with a grim frown, swinging a leg over the gundeck's rail. "Let's go."

They rappelled down to the first gundeck, the whir of the cables barely audible over the clamor of the raging battle and the shouts of soldiers. Beneath Clint's feet stood a crush of soldiers covering the main deck, some wheeling out depth charges and close-range guns. Many were craning their necks in an effort to make out the drooping form of the zeppelin. Officers barked orders, which were mainly lost in the chaos and cacophony.

Clint's heels struck the deck and he clung to the railing for a moment, pointing out the mangled glider bobbing above the waves. It was a clever plan of the part of the civvies to try to get away from the battle, but now they were stranded out at sea without any sort of flotation device or means of rescue.

Sabin looked down at their target with a funny sort of grin on his face. "Kind of exciting, isn't it? Our first mission."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Clint couldn't keep a smile from his face as well. "Yeah, you're right. Exciting."

Freeing his hands from the metal rails, Clint leaped forward into the open air, the wind tearing at his face and his uniform with biting ferocity. A shout of elation escaped him as he fell, the whooping cheers of Sabin ringing in his ears as he plummeted towards the open face of the sea, waves crashing with a distant rumble. Flying through the air he felt remarkably alive, as if every moment in his life had aligned to this distinct moment. Adrenaline rushed through his body, the heat of the battle and the chill of the wind mingling in one intoxicating mix.

The rush ended all too soon as the water grew closer, and Clint yanked his hands backward to slow his fall. With a few adjustments he maneuvered above the glider, which appeared and disappeared beneath the waves with every gust of the wind. The sea had appeared much calmer from above, but the waves grazed Clint's boots and lurched upwards as if to drag him down as well.

He could make out the forms of two civilians, but nothing much about them. Both appeared preoccupied with staying alive, clinging to the metal glider as if it were their lifeline. The craft was rapidly sinking, which didn't leave them with very many options. Reaching back, Clint tore a patch of fabric from his harness and gave the packet a good shake. The plastic immediately inflated into a neon-orange ring, which he hurled towards the civilians below.

They looked up with twin expressions of shock, as if they hadn't noticed the massive Navy ship hovering above them all the while. Twisting in his harness, Clint dragged the tether rope forward and dangled it towards the two, frantically trying to gesture to them how to begin their ascent of the rope. He had been forced to climb ropes with just his arms in boot camp, and he knew these two wouldn't reach ten feet above sea level before their muscles gave out. Confusion and exhaustion stared back at him, and he swore.

"Grab the rope, assholes! It's the Navy!"

Paddling forward, the larger of the two clasped onto the rope and started to drag himself upwards, looping his foot around the rope like Clint had demonstrated. The second followed, albeit more slowly than the first, and both struggled upwards for a short while before pausing for breath.

Loosing his harness' grip on the rope, Clint slid down his tether and locked into position before the first civilian. He was surprisingly well-built, probably a Marine, who watched numbly as Clint quickly tied a ramshackle harness around his chest and legs. He yanked the knot firmly into place, then pointed to it and shouted in the soldier's face.

"This will stay put if you need a break, so come up the rope at your own pace. We'll crank you up eventually!" The soldier nodded in response, and Clint slid down further and followed the same procedure with the second man. He was significantly smaller in stature than the first one, probably under enlistment age. Once both civilians had been secured, Clint pulled himself back upwards until he was level with Sabin's line. The seaman looked rather hurt that Clint had rescued both of the zeppelin escapees.

"You couldn't leave one for your pal Sab, could ya?" he groused, and Clint shrugged.

"Keep up, old man. Help me get these guys on deck, yeah?"

Clint leaned back in his harness and gave a sharp whistle to the soldiers standing by on deck. Immediately his and Sabin's tethers began to crank back upward, and he swung himself over the barrier and on deck quickly, unhooking himself from the rope and helping the exhausted civilians on board. Both fell to the deck gasping for breath, with a few Navy men standing by to watch them with curiosity.

"Look what the tide brought it," Sabin nudged one of the men with his toe. "You still alive down there?"

"Stow it, will you?" Clint reached forward and helped the first man up. He looked disoriented, eyes glancing around the structure of the _Reuben James_ with a look close to reverent awe. "What's your name?"

"Oh!" Snapping out of his trance, the man extended a hand to shake with Clint's. "Steve Rogers, U.S. Army." The words seemed foreign on the man's tongue, and his eyes shone when he uttered them. His cheerful expression cracked when he looked over his shoulder at the form of the dying airship, flames billowing from its broken body.

"Would ya look at that?" Sabin shouted, clapping Rogers on the back with a cry of laughter. "We pulled an Army bloke outta the sea! Should have left him for the fish!"

The sailors nearby chuckled, helping the second man to his feet as they tossed around a few choice words about Army men. Clint drew their attention with a sharp whistle and jerked his head in the direction of the airship.

"Playtime's over. The gondola is going to hit the sea soon, so prime time for evac is running out fast. Is the airship equipped with lifeboats?" he turned to Rogers, but it was the second man who responded.

"The _Calliope_ has two gliders on each end and a dozen life jackets, but that's not enough to get everyone out that's on board."

Clint and the other soldiers nodded. "Roger that. Sabin, grab some other guys and tell them to harness up, we'll need a larger force for recon. How long until we're in firing range?"

"Minutes at most," a seaman called back.

"The rest of you, take up your positions or help crank us back up. The sea's pretty bad, so we might need some help down there. Go!" the cluster of sailors broke apart immediately, boots pounding against the metal deck as they tore off to their positions. Clint swung his leg over the barrier again, but Steve clasped his arm in one hand.

"What about us? How can we help?"

Clint was thrown off-guard by this comment – he had assumed the two would just huddle around in blankets or something. "If you and your pal don't need medical attention, report to the quartermaster to start ferrying shells to the gunmen. We're going to bomb the shit out of these Krauts, so we'll need all the ammo we can get."

"Right." Clint pointed in the direction of the forward deck and Steve ran off, followed by his fellow escapee. Sabin returned a moment later with a half-dozen more men, all suited up with cases of inflatable life preservers in their hands. Three took point at the top of the tethers, while three followed Clint's lead and took their stations on the edges of the deck, spaced evenly apart.

A thunderous crash sounded as the airship was dragged down into the sea, casting water a hundred feet into the air with the impact. The brilliant flames battled against the crashing waves in a brief and violent struggle before the zeppelin turned over and began its lazy meander to the bottom of the sea. The Reuben James replied with its own dialogue, the pounding of explosives against the hull of the U-boat that had begun to pull away from the site of the crash. Trails of tracer fire followed the shells' progress through the air, and the space between the two ships filled with smoke from the artillery thrashing the Kraut ship's flank. Metal splintered and flames tore across the U-boat's hull, and the submarine beat a hasty retreat away from the fallen zeppelin, sliding beneath the water. Its progress was crippled by damage from the _Reuben James_ ' fire, and floodlights illuminated its progress through the water as it limped away into the night.

"Any survivors in sight?" Sabin shouted over the wind, and Clint pointed towards a spot of white against the blue gloom below him. Arms, immensely tiny from his vantage point in the air, flailed above the waves to the soldiers above.

"There!" Clint shouted, kicking off from the deck and leaping into the void once again. This time a sense of urgency filled his fall as he plummeted below the hull of the _Reuben James_. Now the sailors only had so much time until the zeppelin went under for good, taking any remaining civilians down with it.

Twisting back into an upright position, he yanked on his tether to tighten the knot and halt his descent a few feet above the lapping waves. The man he had spotted floated a good twenty feet from where he had descended, and was fighting with all of his strength to keep his head above the choppy waves.

Clint whistled sharply to get his attention and waved his arms. As soon as he was sure the man had spotted him, he tore off another life preserver from his harness and inflated it quickly. The man grew closer and closer with a strong swimming stroke – Clint could make out his bald head, but the man was still remarkably strong as he battled the waves to reach the tether.

He threw out the inflated life preserver and made sure the man had clasped the bottom of the rope firmly before he began a slow ascent. The man had nearly managed to drag himself out of the icy grip of the water when he cried out in pain and shock. Leaning back in his harness, Clint turned to see his leg clamped firmly in the junction of two twisted pieces of metal. Blood quickly began to stain his pant leg and turn the black water an inky scarlet.

Moving quickly, Clint scampered down the rope until he was level with the elder man. He was Army brass, with medals decorating his soaked shirt and a bulldog-like expression that made Clint want to salute. By twisting in his harness and dangling with his head towards the sea and boots pointed towards the _Reuben James_ , Clint was able to reach the metal that was penetrating the man's leg. He gripped the girder with both hands and prepared to pull it away, when a massive wave swept forward and threw him against the body of the Army officer.

Clint's head was submerged. He struggled to right himself, but he was hopelessly tangled in his harness and the flailing limbs of the Army officer. The elder man was kicking up quite a fuss above him, and his weight had shifted on top of Clint until he was practically sitting on the seaman. Closing his eyes, Clint forced his racing heart to calm and opened his eyes into the swirling blackness of the sea. A glimmer of light caught his attention – the floodlights of the ship, surely – and he grasped the tether with half-frozen hands to yank himself up.

The Army man wouldn't budge, and Clint's fingers refused to grip the worn rope. His lungs were screaming for air and his chest began to throb, but he tugged on the rope again for a second attempt at bringing himself to the surface.

Air rushed into his lungs as he surfaced, coughing and gasping while throwing the Army officer a dirty look. He had slipped so low on the tether that he was now paddling in the rough waves of the Atlantic, with nothing to support him but his own strength. Clint was sure he would be able to hold out for a while in this state, but he could tell the Army man's wound and the frigid temperatures were sapping his strength.

Clint took in a deep breath and dove under the waves again, getting a firm grip on the girders and yanking with all of his strength. The Army officer's shout of pain was audible even under the surface of the water, but Clint focused on dislodging the twisted metal rods from his leg. By dragging the rods apart and pulling them down the length of the man's leg, he was able to free him from the ensnared metal.

Surfacing once more, Clint dragged himself up the tether until he was out of the water and looked back to the officer to see if he was following. The ordeal had been too much for the man, though, who stared up at Clint with blank, exhausted eyes. Clint tugged sharply on the tether and whistled up to the deck of the _Reuben James_ crew, who began to crank the rope upwards. To make sure the officer was secure Clint shimmied down the rope and fashioned a harness for him like he had for Steve and his friend. Both were too out of breath to say anything, but the officer gave him a look of gratitude and clasped him weakly on the shoulder.

By the time the two reached the deck of the boat the officer was nearly unconscious, with his once-tan pant leg stained brilliant crimson, but Clint supported him as he limped over the rail and onto the deck. Medical officers were standing by to help the rescued crew members, so Clint handed the officer off to one of the medics and paused at the rail to scour the seas for more escapees with the rest of Sabin's crew.

"It's funny," Sabin called to him as he started cranking one of the sailor's tethers back up the side of the boat, "You'd think a civilian craft like that would have a bunch of trust-fund wackos on board. Turns out half the army is showing up on our decks!"

"Yeah, hilarious," Clint replied through chattering teeth. Before he could respond again another cry went up from the crews that were being winched up – another body had been spotted, and Clint leaped over the rail for another rescue at sea.

The process continued for what felt like years, hours bleeding into one another as Clint searched the crashing waves for signs of survivors. The threat of the U-boat had long disappeared over the horizon, but the threat of hypothermia and exhaustion was becoming all too potent for any crash survivors and sailors alike. Clint was hanging from his harness with three other sailors when he was abruptly pulled from his perch and back to the ship's deck, where no one but Lieutenant Commander Edwards himself stood waiting.

Clint got to his feet and saluted, swaying on his feet from fatigue. He hadn't slept in a day, his uniform was frozen to his skin, and every part of his body groaned in protest from the physical beating it had just endured. Edwards gestured for the sailors to stand at ease.

"You've done us a great service with your selfless acts today, seamen. Now go to the barracks and get some rest! You look dead on your feet." Clint certainly _felt_ dead, and with a mumbled thanks he stumbled down to the barracks and fell into his bunk with his soaked clothes still on, falling into a blissful sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

For a man's first battle, it had been pretty damn exciting.

 _Depth charges - an explosive charge used by aircraft or ships to explode underwater and destroy submarines._

 _Thanks as always for your reads! What do you think so far? :)_


	9. Transit

_"I have been asked whether I would agree that the tragedy of the scientist_

 _is that he is able to bring about great advances in our knowledge, which_

 _mankind may then proceed to use for the purposes of destruction. My_

 _answer is that this is not the tragedy of the scientist,_

 _it is the tragedy of mankind."_

 _\- Leo Szilard_

* * *

 _Atlantic Shipping Lanes; July 15, 1941_

Life on the _Reuben James_ was not as flattering as the newsreels made it out to be, Tony had decided. He had realized this about halfway through his morning of throwing up over the side of the deck. Otherwise known as "feeding the fish," as the sailors were quick to inform him.

Needless to say, he was not in the best mood when he was called into the bridge.

For the center of operations on the small ship, the crew of the _Reuben James_ didn't skimp around when it came to their home base. The lieutenant commander stood by the helm watching as one of his less-thans gently angle the zeppelin ship towards the east, and a glut of other sailors filled the small room with lively chatter. A jumble of confusing badges and stripes and stars stared back at Tony in his ruined, salt-smelling suit, and he pressed down his lapels and smoothed his hair back in an attempt to look half decent.

"Ah, young Mr. Stark!" the commander turned and extended his calloused hand to shake. "Thank you for your presence this morning. Had I realized we had such distinguished guests on board I would have visited the cabin myself!"

"You're very kind," Tony replied, the words slipping from his tongue from years of practice. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, do you have a list of those recovered from the _Calliope'_ s crash?"

The eyes of the commander turned softer, a smile spread across his face that dripped with sympathy. "Of course, of course. We should be expecting your friend at any moment now."

"My friend?" Tony asked, dropping his hands in his pockets. They were still wet from his brief excursion in the Atlantic Ocean.

Edwards turned back to him, bushy eyebrows raised. "I had expected you two were acquainted! The young man we fished out of the ocean with you. The Army lad?"

"Right, yes." Nodding his head slowly, Tony turned back to the bustle of the bridge. "You keep a tight ship, sir."

His smile deepening, Edwards clapped a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Wonderful to meet a man who recognizes our work! We do our best around these parts, and this crew's the finest I've laid eyes on. Ah, here we are. Barton, I trust our guest made it here safely?"

The sandy-haired sailor that had rescued Tony the night before stood against the doorframe, arms crossed in the image of casualness. "You betcha, sir."

"Excellent. Dismissed." Edwards gestured with a hand and the sailor exited, leaving the Army guy behind. He looked quite laughable, with the general impression of a lost puppy surrounding him as he gawked at the bustling bridge. He nodded briefly at Tony and turned back to the commander, posture ramrod-straight. Was this guy born a soldier, even before the experiment?

"I don't know if we've properly met," he whispered, shaking Tony's hand when Edwards looked away. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers from all of these formalities. "Steve Rogers."

"Tony Stark," he replied. "So you're the one who's going to win the war, huh? I look forward to seeing your pictures in the papers."

Steve's eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut as the commander turned back to the two of them. "You'll be pleased to know I've wired ahead to London to tell them of our rather _special_ cargo. I speak for the crew of the _Reuben James_ when I say that it is our pleasure to host both of you."

Steve dipped his head forward. "The pleasure is all ours, sir."

"I believe you'll be wanting to see the list of rescued personnel as well, Mr. Rogers," the commander handed Steve the list, and Tony's heart sank at the brief list of names printed. If there was a possibility that Howard...

Before he could reach the end of his thought he saw the familiar initials at the very end of the list. His old man had stuck it out after all – even a crash-landing in the Atlantic hadn't been enough to keep Howard from kicking and screaming. Tony was relieved, truly, but a rogue part of his mind was almost disappointed. He dispelled these thoughts before he could dwell on them further.

Steve's hands were shaking as he handed the list back to Edwards; the commander caught on to his look with a sympathetic frown.

"Something wrong, son?"

Steve shook his head, clenching his jaw as he handed the list back to Edwards. "No, sir. It's only... One of my friends was on that ship. I don't think he made it back."

Dropping his head, the commander fixed his eyes on his shoes. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he was a fine man."

Silence reigned for a brief moment before Edwards cleared his throat and spoke again. "The trip to Britain is a two week's journey from today, so you might as well get acquainted with the ship and how we run things around here. I understand you're civilians, but to keep your bed you'll pull your weight. Since you've already met Seaman Barton, I'll let him show you around. Shadow his duties and we'll be shipshape once we reach London." Turning to Tony, the commander lifted a finger to stroke his chin. "Tell me, son, is it true you're as mechanically minded as your father is?"

"He doesn't like to admit it, but yes." Tony smiled broadly and Edwards released a weak laugh.

"Er... Right. Tell you what – how would you like to follow around our mechanics? It's lucky for us we have to go as slow as the British ships, because there's a trick pulley that's been keeping us from full functionality. Mind going down and taking a crack at things?"

Tony fought to keep the easy smile on his face. He couldn't resent Edwards from trying to do his job, but he hadn't expected to be pulled out of the water one day and be put to work the next. "It's the least I can do."

"Swell." Edwards shook Tony's hand for what felt like the thousandth time, beaming all the while. After returning a salute from a solemn-faced Steve, he turned back to the bridge and his crew, effectively dismissing the two new passengers.

Steve met Tony's eyes and shrugged, and they both ascended the stairs that brought them back to the main deck. Even though it was hardly dawn, sailors scurried across the deck and up the rigging. Whirring cables and amicable banter filled the briney air, and Tony looked even more out of place in his suit. Steve had had the foresight to change into a Navy uniform, bare of any insignias or signs of rank. They observed the activity on the deck for a minute before turning to each other. Tony couldn't help but smile at the awkwardness of the moment – even though he had only known Steve for less than an hour, they had jumped out of a zeppelin together, and that had to count for something. He almost felt reluctant to leave the poor guy alone.

"Which way's the engine room?" Tony wondered aloud, eyes drifting upward to the huge balloon above his head.

"Where's that sailor who's supposed to show me around?" Steve sighed. "Do they think I'll wander off of the ship?"

"I think you showed your stripes last night in the battle, soldier." Lifting his hand in a mock salute, Tony jumped to attention. "Now if you'll excuse me, duty calls."

-o0o-

With the help of Seaman Barton, who insisted Tony call him Clint, he reached the engine room of the _Reuben James_ after a quick excursion up the mooring lines and into the balloon itself. The thick canvas gave way beneath a low-hanging doorway, and he stepped into an amber-tinted room whose roof stretched upward and outward in the gentle curve of the balloon's shape. Battens ran along the length and width of the canvas like ribs, giving the balloon its support, and metal rods as thick as trees supported the structures settled on top of the zeppelin.

Twin balloonets gave the zeppelin its lift: two ovals full of helium poised near the tapered ends of the zeppelin's canvas balloon. In the center of the canvas room crouched the _Reuben James_ ' engines, enormous blocks of metal with hissing gears and roiling steam that filled the room with a humming rumble.

The churning of the metal was drowned out by energetic jazz tunes, with wailing trumpets and a pounding beat. A figure peeked around the side of the engine to see a grease-stained Tony tapping his wrench against a variety of pipes in an imitation of drums, a large radio sitting at his feet. He was engrossed in his work and only looked up from the cogs and wires at his feet when Steve pounded his fist against the engine's side.

Tony looked up sharply, then nodded to the radio with an eager smile. "You like Basie?"

In response Steve twisted the volume dial to silent and crossed his arms. "What did they do to me?"

His smile fading quickly, Tony sat back on his heels. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaving a smear of black oil, and looked Steve up and down like a doctor examining his patient.

"Well, Howard doesn't tell me everything – really he tells me nothing, so this won't be entirely accurate..."

"I don't care about accuracy!" Steve cried. Tony had never seen the man look desperate before – it was a welcome break from the impenetrable superman persona. He rather enjoyed this exchange. "Please. Just tell me."

Tony frowned slightly. "Okay. Howard used Vita-Rays on you to stimulate muscle and cell growth. It acted as a catalyst to whatever the hell was in those blue vials of the German doctor's, which is why you're now wider than a single chopstick. Congratulations."

Dragging a hand through his hair, Steve leaned his shoulder against the engine. "It's not even that. I feel... Different. My thoughts, my mind. Am I going insane?"

Tony couldn't help himself _._ He laughed. "Look, big guy, you're not crazy. It's a transition. You used to be a featherweight and now you're a macho man. That'll do something to a guy's head, yeah?"

The words weren't entirely comforting, but Steve's head bobbed. "There was something Erskine said to me before the experiment. He said something about the serum multiplying your inner feelings. Good becomes great, bad becomes worse, that sort of thing."

"Fascinating," Tony felt his eyes glaze over as he stared off into the distance of the canvas balloon. "To think a change in the full mental makeup of a person could occur through a serum... The effect could be astronomical! Well, you're living proof of that." he laughed bitterly, remembering how much Howard had cherished this one pet project. _Good becomes great..._ That was mot likely why Howard didn't volunteer him for this project.

"I'm sorry if I was brusque before." Steve dropped his gaze to his shoes, and Tony laughed again, this time in better spirits.

"Don't worry about it. Hey, have you ever been to London?"

Tony could hardly believe it when Steve shook his head. "I've never been outside of New York City."

"Then you've been to London halfway already! New York is like a slice of the world, but with a few more taxicabs and tall buildings. And sunshine. And nice people. Am I making London sound unpleasant?"

"Only slightly."

"Excellent, that's what I was going for." Tony grinned, then kicked the engine lightly with his toe. "I've been meaning to ask you about back on the _Calliope_. The stuff you were saying before we had our free-fall... You know something about machines?"

Steve's somber expression broke into a grin. "Oh, yes! I was going to be a mechanic before the war. With all the men gone I figured it would be me and their wives hunched over artillery shells, and then Erskine showed up, and the rest is history. Of course, I know all about your father's enterprises from the papers."

Scoffing, Tony rolled his eyes up into his head and groaned. "Half of the articles about Howard are things I've done. You've probably seen some of his cover-ups for my 'insufficiencies.' He's the one that's insufferable. Know anything about zeppelin engines?"

Now he had pegged the supersoldier, and a blush colored Rogers' cheeks as he took in the man-sized chunks of machinery standing before him. "Can't say I do. I like the planes especially, but never something so big as this ship."

"These are real nasty – too many gears and wires where they don't need to be. I wouldn't expect you to known much." Tony replied crisply, turning back to his work and nudging the volume of the radio higher with his toe.

"Um... Right." Glancing downwards, Steve gestured to his full height that he was still getting accustomed to. "I'm still trying to figure myself out at the moment. I feel like I'm in someone else's body. I didn't expect Erskine's formula to make me so... So..."

"Insecure?"

"I was going more for tall."

"They're practically the same thing. Want to see me take a crack at these engines? Maybe you can hand me screwdrivers and that sort of thing." The words were sharp, and Tony was fully aware of the fact. But with every word Steve Rogers was becoming more and more of the son Howard had endlessly told Tony to be more like: polite, an interest in mechanics, the perfect specimen. In a childish sort of way, this was the lone area Tony could prove his talents.

The flash of frustration, the first break in Steve's armor, raced across the man's eyes before he knelt beside the radio. "If I can help, I'll do it. Where do we start?"

 _Thank you so much for your feedback! :)_


	10. The Cliffs of Dover

_Ironic points of light_

 _Flash out wherever the Just_

 _Exchange their messages:_

 _May I, composed like them_

 _Of Eros and of dust,_

 _Beleaguered by the same_

 _Negation and despair,_

 _Show an affirming flame._

 _\- September 1, 1939, by W.H. Auden_

* * *

 _London, England; July 22, 1941_

The lieutenant commander had been prepared to kiss Tony's ruined leather shoes when he emerged from the engine room oil-streaked but triumphant. The destroyer's bungling engines had been whipped into shape with minimal effort on Tony's part. The ship's machinists could only watch in awe as Tony danced around the gyrating metal, blasting the latest swing hits over the churning of the engines.

What he had expected to be drudgery had turned out to be much more appealing than he had expected, and soon the _Reuben James_ was steaming along at a jaunty thirty knots, paced just slower than its British counterparts.

His work had some reward – they would be reaching London sooner than expected. As much as Tony had enjoyed his short stint on the ship, he yearned to have earth under his feet and something other than rock-hard toast to sustain him. Steve's new squad of companions made the journey somewhat tolerable, hosting basketball games in the empty storage holds and belting out the lyrics of "God Bless America" in different accents with every line. Dan Sabin had a particularly convincing German one, which he abused endlessly, and Tony had perfected his southern cowboy drawl. Steve was hopeless with anything besides English, and his attempts at Italian came off as a Bronx taxi driver.

Another enjoyable night came about when Tony rigged up a radio from some spare parts and hailed the British merchants on the ships the _Reuben James_ was escorting. A fair amount of slights towards each other's mothers were thrown about in the exchange, but the merchants willingly talked politics and music with the sailors. Every Sunday Steve and a host of other sailors went to the chapel to write letters home to family and listen to the small supply of records onboard.

Tony received a telegram a day after the crash from his mother – how she knew what ship he had boarded was beyond him. She reported that Howard had returned home unharmed and that they missed Tony dearly. Mother had always been a good liar, even over telegram.

The white cliffs of Dover hung below the deck of the Reuben James like curtains, jutting upward from the blue water with their brilliance and sweeping height. Sailors cleaning the deck or performing their various duties hesitated as they neared the railing as England drew ever nearer. Deep blue dress uniforms filled the deck in a flurry of activity; Tony saw Clint descending from the ropes and waved.

"So, what are your plans for shore leave?" the sailor raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Have any girls on call in England?"

"Are you kidding? I've got twenty. I could fix this whole boat up with the finest dames London has to offer," Tony shrugged, only half-joking. He had been debating which of his past flings to ring up once he reached the shore. Clint whistled with admiration and pulled Sabin over.

"This guy's got some girls for us in London!"

Sabin's eyes narrowed and he eyed Tony suspiciously. "But are these quality dames? I mean the real deal? The trick with ladies," he swept his hands broadly, assuming the posture of a lecturer, "is that they're fickle creatures. Can she dance? Has she got a good smile?" Sabin wolf-whistled and Tony rolled his eyes.

"What's this I hear?" Owen and Farley trotted up behind Sabin, the former eyeing Tony with renewed interest. "Word's getting around you've got a dame in the city. Care to share?"

"Yeah, word gets around these parts fast," Tony groused, and the sailors groaned their complaints.

"Aw, c'mon, we didn't mean it that way... Go on, tell us about her, will ya?"

Now Tony took the stage as the sailors fanned out, giving him space to express the merit of the girl to his heart's content. A thousand faces blurred in Tony's mind, and he picked on out of the lot and ran with it.

"Liza's not your ordinary girl. She's the sort of dame who says she doesn't like to be hustled off by a man, but she has the best pair of dancing boots I've seen. Tears up the dance floor – she'd stay there all night if you let her."

"But is she beautiful?" Owen pried, and Tony placed a hand on his chest.

"Oh, be still, my beating heart!" Leaning against the rail and placing a hand to his brow, Tony feigned the look of lovesickness. "Her eyes are like the starlight, her hair is brighter than gold. But don't get the wrong impression – she's not afraid to play rough."

His grin was mirrored in the awed expressions of Owen and Farley. "A real London dame. How'd you get such a catch?" Owen narrowed his eyes at Tony as if sizing him up.

"Are you kidding me? Look at this charm! I could pick us up dates for the entirety of shore leave if you'd like." He put on his most winsome smile and Owen mimed swooning, falling back into Sabin's open arms. Rooting around in his pocket and dropping Owen unceremoniously to the deck in the process, Sabin pulled out a five-dollar bill and placed it in Tony's palm.

"I'll take you up on that. The second we hit the streets, I want to see you find a girl to take for a spin around town."

Tony shook his head, letting an easy grin slip across his face. "As soon as I get a suit you're on. You think I can pick up a dame in dress blues?" he gestured down to his ill-fitting Navy uniform – the only size available had been far too large and hung loosely around the armpits and ankles.

"What's all this about?" a voice called from the crowd, and Tony waved Clint over.

"Ah, Seaman Barton! Glad you stopped by."

"Yeah, I'm positively thrilled. What are you all conspiring about? I want in." He leaned against the rail and crossed his ankles, the image of nonchalance.

Dropping his voice as if they really had something to hide, Farley jerked his head towards Tony. "He said he's going to get us all dates for shore leave. Bona fide London girls! Sab bet him a fiver he couldn't pick a girl up off the streets, but he says he needs to get a suit first."

"First impressions are important," Tony shrugged, and Clint grinned.

"Now I'm intrigued. What kinda dames are we talking about?"

Sabin gripped Clint's shoulders, shaking them as if he were trying to rattle some sense into his friend. "Who cares? I'd be glad to take a horse out at this rate. We're hitting the town, boys!" His cry was met with the cheers of many other sailors clustered on the deck as they eyed the shadow of the city rising above the horizon.

Sabin stepped forward and waved his arms, pulling the group's attention back to the deck. "Wait a minute, hold up! We're forgetting a very important friend of ours! What about that fella we dragged up with you, Stark? He'll need a date, too, or he'll be the only guy one the _Reuben James_ spending the night alone..."

Sabin wolf-whistled again and Tony waved him off. "Nah, Steve's not that kind of guy. Doesn't even drink!"

"Never pegged him as a square," Sabin stroked his chin in the impression of deep thought.

"Stop trying to act smart, you haven't got two brain cells to rub together," Clint called back to him, and the group of soldiers erupted with laughter.

"You gonna take that lying down, Sab?" Farley gasped between chuckles, slapping Sabin's shoulder with the palm of his hand. Sabin rubbed the back of his neck and blushed a brilliant crimson, but chose not to respond as Clint grinned at him.

"All's fair in love and war, my friend."

"But we haven't even gotten to war yet!" Sabin protested, but his voice was drowned out by the hollers and yells that filled the deck. The spires of London's buildings finally swooped into view, and Tony was shoved against the railing as the soldiers pressed closer to the edge to make out the distinctive skyline of their destination city. All thoughts of London dames vanished in an instant as the _Reuben James_ angled its nose toward London. Hats waved over the sides of the ship and boots stomped against the deck while the _Reuben James_ pulled over the suburbs of the great city.

Tony had been to London before on many occasions, but the changes to the city were evident even from a distance as they neared their dock. Barrage balloons dappled the gray rooftops with bursts of white, presumably to deter dive-bombers from getting too close to the city streets. Every window was covered in a sheath of black paint or fabric, giving the buildings the impression of missing teeth in their windows. It would all be rather amusing we the times not so dire.

Farley's boyish face split into a grin as he looked down over the railing, his hat swinging from his fingers. "I've never been to London before! Where d'you reckon we'll stay? Will we be able to see the castles and all? What's there to see in London, Clint?"

"Oh, loads of stuff. Buckingham Palace and Big Ben, that sort of thing."

"You're kidding me! We're gonna see a real queen?"

Owen snorted and rolled his eyes. "We're not actually going to _see_ her, idiot. She's probably in the countryside by now."

His smile drooping with disappointment, Farley turned his gaze back to the city below him. "Why'd she go and do something like that?"

"The English think the Krauts are going to go after them next. They're the only ones who can stand against old Adolph in Europe. Makes you kinda nervous, huh?" Sabin shuddered as he looked down at the city with new eyes. Farley gasped and Clint patted his shoulder in an almost paternal gesture.

"Don't worry about it, kid. We're here to have fun, right? Especially if these London dames are real," he waggled an eyebrow and Owen whistled again.

Farley nodded, although his expression remained solemn. "I guess you're right. Still... I never imagined coming to London like this."

In an attempt to dispel the depression that had settled over his little band, Tony pointed down to the city streets with excitement. "Just think about it! Real food, a bed to sleep on that isn't a canvas hammock, no one to order us around, and the pining girls of London looking to ease their sorrow for their Limey sweethearts. What more could you ask for?"

"The man does have a point," Clint nodded, peering over Owen's shoulder and down into the darkened streets of the city. "What's not to love?"

Turning to the side, Tony looked to see the British merchant ship nearest to the _Reuben James_. The sailors there had crammed onto the deck like the American ones, and their cheers were audible even from Tony's vantage point.

"It must be strange to come home and find it like this. Blacked-out windows, blimps everywhere." Farley waved his hat in the direction of the British sailors. "Glad I'm not a Limey."

"I guess that's life to them, then," Clint jutted his chin towards the merchant ship. "They don't know any different."

"That's a real shame." Resting his chin on the rail, Farley's hat drooped from one finger as he waved it lazily over the London skyline. "Why'd you have to go ruin the mood, Barton?"

"Who, me?" Clint placed a hand on his chest, affronted. "It was Owen who was going on about not seein' the queen and all!"

"Was not!" Owen hollered back. "I was just stating the facts, I was!"

-o0o-

The airfields of London were bustling with traffic when the _Reuben James_ pulled in, its merchant crafts all docking safely by sea or air. The docks formed a strange, hybrid space between the two forms of travel, with a large port for sea-based carriers and rows of hangars for the airships. Massive tanks of helium stood against the canvas walls of the structures, and ground crews bustled about like ants across the tarmac to bring ships in and escort them out. The frenzy of activity was enough to make the sailors antsy, and they were shifting from foot to foot with anticipation as Edwards summoned them to the aft deck for a meeting before they were released on leave.

"Your passes are valid for a full weekend, soldiers. Don't void them by going out and doing something stupid. I so much as hear a peep from a pub owner or the ladyfolk of London say you gave them a mean look and I'll bust you all the way back to Chicago." Snickers rolled from the crowd. Tony saw Clint elbow Sabin sharply and receive an elbow to his own ribs in return.

"At ease, boys. Have at it!" he raised his hand in a gesture of dismissal and the sailors dispersed immediately, their crisp lines dissolving into chaos as they banded together and ran for the ramps. Standing to the side, Tony watched with amusement as Clint and Sabin snagged their friends and waved him over, dragging Farley by his collar to the nearest exit ramp. Tony jogged over to meet them, hiking up the loose waistband of his sailor's uniform as he did so, as was practically thrown down the length of the ramp by eager sailors pushing to get off of the confines of the _Reuben James._

"Land ho!" Owen proclaimed, and Sabin clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to send him staggering a few steps forward.

"Really clever. Let's get the nearest taxi we can to the city!"

"What d'ya want to see first? Big Ben? Notre Dame?"

"That's in Paris, asshole!"

"Yeah? I signed up for the Navy, not art history. Sue me!"

Throngs of soldiers filled the airfield, all swarming towards the exit in the direction of central London. Rays of sunlight peered between dappled clouds, he had solid ground beneath his feet, and he was about to enter London – Tony took a deep breath and absorbed it all. Yes, this would do quite nicely. If only he could change out of his ridiculous Navy uniform, then all would be right with the world.

Sabin snagged a taxi lingering by the entrance of the airfield and the sailors packed into the cramped space, with Owen and Farley stuck together in the center seat. Tony took the front seat after a brief stare-down with Clint, who was forced against the window when Steve showed up out of the crowd and took the far right seat. Sabin elbowed Farley to make more room in the back, and the taxi driver was already irked by the time the overstuffed cab pulled out of parking and onto the dirt roads stretching from the airfield into the city streets.

Tony kept his nose to the greasy window for the entirety of the trip into the city. Planes zoomed above his head, and he made a game of trying to identify their makes before they flew beyond the borders of his glass pane. Soldiers paced alongside the taxi, which rumbled along across the stones and jolted with the slightest bump. Lines of traffic stretched onward into London as far as the eye could see, but an equal number of cars were pulling _out._

Children crammed their faces against the windows of station wagons, their belongings strapped to their backs and their eyes looking back where they had come from. Tony noticed the plush animals clenched in their fists, the woeful looked angled towards some far-off home. Many were crying, but some looked stern as they guided their siblings along down the road. The exodus of the children was staggering, like some sort of ancient crusade.

With an unintelligible swear, the taxi driver leaned his horn and pounded his fist against the steering wheel. For an exhilarating trip into London, Tony's introduction to the city had been drawn out and depressing. He turned back to the backseat crammed with the sailors and Steve, who were chatting animatedly behind the glass partition.

"Well, it wouldn't be a trip to London without finding one of those telephone booths. Anyone got a camera?" Steve 's muscular form was wedged rather tightly into the corner of the cabin, with Farley half-sitting on his lap as he tried to avoid Owen's sharp elbows.

"Nah, just get a postcard. I haven't got any money, though. How're we going to pick up some girls if we can't even buy them a soda?"

"We'll figure something out. If she's the right girl she won't care if you've got one buck or a million!" Sabin retorted, bracing his elbows on his knees as the taxi rattled over a particularly large pothole.

Owen looked suspicious of Sabin's claim. "I don't care so much if she's the right girl. I'll take any of them at this point!"

"If we can even get into the city in the first place. We've moved about an inch in the past five minutes." Clint turned and jabbed a finger in the direction of the roads leading out of London. "Wonder if we can grab a bed in one of these fellas' places. They won't be needing 'em."

As Tony looked back to the crowd of straggling children stretching further behind the lumbering taxi, a sense of foreboding fell over him. This wasn't a business trip with Howard. This was war.

How had he managed to get caught in the middle of this mess?

 _Happy Memorial Day weekend, everybody! Given the nature of this story, I just wanted to send a shout-out to the veterans who have served our country - may they always be remembered. Also, thanks so much for your feedback on this story! :)_


	11. On the Street of Dreams

_"I have heard soldiers say a thousand times,_

 _'If only we could have created all this energy_

 _for something good.' But we rise above_

 _our normal powers only in times of destruction."_

 _\- Ernie Pyle_

* * *

 _London, England; July 22, 1941_

Once the aged taxi finally limped into the city of London, Clint was swept up in the glamor of it all. Children darted down the streets with gas masks painted like Mickey Mouse. Sandbags piled on every corner, some armed with anti-aircraft guns crouched behind them like slender necks reaching for the sky. Massive blimp-shaped balloons hung over the city like faux clouds, casting amber shadows on the cobbled city streets.

"Wicked," Farley grinned as he leaned over Steve to peer out the window, "We made it! Where to first?"

A match of bickering ensued in the back seat as each sailor clamored for a different location. Owen shouted for the River Thames while Farley pushed for Buckingham Palace. The racket escalated until the taxi driver leaned on his horn again, his impressive mustache quivering as he pointed a gnarled finger for the door.

"That's it, Yanks! Out! Out!"

Muttering an apology and placing some bills in the man's hand, Tony leaped out of the passenger door and onto the curb as the sailors extracted themselves with great care from their cramped positions in the backseat. With an additional honk for good measure, the cabbie veered away and into traffic and out of sight.

Before the group could continue its griping, Clint rested a hand against his stomach. "Let's grab something to eat before we embark on any grand journeys. We have the weekend, anyways!"

Farley groaned and his stomach rumbled audibly. "I'll go in for that. Where can you get a hamburger around these parts?"

The six scanned the street around them. The novel feeling of arriving in London swept over Clint once again as he angled his head back and observed the buildings that seemed to scrape the sky. Twining stone formed neat white facades of classic buildings that had stood for a century, thrust into relief from the blackout window shades. A lone street in London put Main Street, USA to shame.

As luck would have it, a cluster of British privates in dress greens wandered past the slapdash American groups – judging from their stumbling paths, they had been frequenting one of London's famous pubs.

"How goes it, then?" one slurred, his accent so strong Clint could hardly make the words out. He wouldn't have really needed to even speak the man's language, though. Soldiers were soldiers, sharing a sort of innate connection, be it the silver trail of communication lines or one of a bullet. Grinning at the red-cheeked private, Clint thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels.

"Know where we can get a drink around here?" he asked, and the faces of the Limeys burst into wide grins. One clapped a hand on Clint's shoulder and dragged him into their small squad, the alcohol strong on his breath.

"I like the way yeh think, Yank! Tell you what, wanna know the best place for yeh sailors and soldiers in this fine town?"

"Swell," Clint nodded his affirmation and the soldiers whooped, one linking arms with Steve and dragging his bulk after him as he started in the direction they had come.

"Well, come on, then! If you dawdle on the streets, you'll dawdle on the battlefield, that's what my commander always says," the most sober-looking of the group cast an eye on Farley and Owen straggling behind the newly bonded soldiers.

Clint raised an eyebrow at the soldier and winked. "Seeing as he's probably dawdling in the sheets with a London dame, I wouldn't say you should take his word too seriously."

Raucous laughter burst from the cluster of soldiers, with one leaning against a tree to catch his wheezing breath. A slur of words in incomprehensible Cockney drawl followed, and Clint smiled and nodded his head as he was swept down the street on the tide of slightly drunk, slightly slap-happy soldiers. This was soldier-speak. This he could handle any day.

-o0o-

The street Clint wound up on had been tailor-made for the influx of soldiers and sailors into the fine city of London. A circular drive wound around a small central square decorated with the statue of some old Limey war hero, a constant reminder hanging above the heads of the soldiers as they danced and drank into the night. The businesses surrounding the drive were largely bars; small, cramped establishments crammed against each other and wooed potential customers with bouncing swing music and flowing beer. The overlapping melodies, clink of glasses and feverish energy of the street gave it a sort of magical quality as the soldiers pulled Clint and his entourage into one of the more crowded pubs, wrangling chairs seemingly out of thin air as they crowded into a table.

The reactions of the group were so at odds with each other Clint had to laugh. Steve and Farley glanced around the pub like a German were about to jump out at them from behind the counter, a childlike innocence etched across their faces. Owen lit a cigarette offered to him from one of the British soldiers and leaned back in his chair, observing the scene through a film of cobalt-blue smoke, and Tony was shamelessly flirting with one of the prettiest girls at the bar. Judging from the blush on her face it appeared to be working.

"You gotta tell me – have you fought yet?" Farley swiveled back to the table and propped his elbows on the greasy tablecloth. The Limeys threw their heads back and laughed as if he had made a particularly funny joke.

"I'm telling you, Farley, you gotta go into comedy. You'll be the next Charlie Chaplain."

"Yeah, you're a real laugh yourself," Farley threw an elbow into Clint's ribs. "What gives?"

Recovering from their bout of laughter, the soldiers focused their attention back to the question at hand. "Not us, we haven't seen a lick of combat between us. We steam off to Africa after our weekend's leave."

A somber silence fell across the table, interspersed by the dim-sounding record beating out jazz tunes and Steve attempting to wave Owen's cigarette smoke away from his face. Farley saved the mood with his boyish enthusiasm, leaping forward in his seat with eyes the size of saucers.

"No way! I don't know anything about Africa... Have they got lions there?"

"I reckon they do. And Germans," Clint responded, knowing that the LC would be proud of his proper terminology.

"Say, do any of you fellas drive tanks? I've always wanted to drive a tank, but they stuck me in the Navy!" The conversation immediately picked up after this question, because someone's aunt's son was in a tank division in Africa and someone thought he knew one of the guys from his school saying he was going to be a tank driver.

Full tankards of beer were thrust on the table by a pretty bartender donning an apron and a wide smile. She batted her eyelashes at Steve, who was oblivious to her advances by taking his mug without comment and looking at the foam with a strange mixture of curiosity and distaste. The clink of glass echoed in the pub as the soldiers toasted to everything from their hometown sweethearts to the bullets in their guns to the Queen of England herself. Clint took a deep draught from his glass, the cool liquid filling his chest with a flicker of fire. All tension in conversation melted away as their glasses drained, tinting the golden afternoon with amber beer and good companionship.

Conversation wandered to politics, as it often did with soldiers, especially those about to ship off to certain danger. Even though political gossip was taboo concerning troop movements and the like – Clint had seen enough 'Loose Lips Sink Ships' posters to know that much – the alcohol made him feel safer as they bent closer to discuss the matter.

"I've been hearin' round," one soldier ventured, and everyone leaned closer partly to hear his low voice and partly to make any sense of his thick accent, "that they're saying Africa is only the beginning. I've heard 'em say Hitler's rearin' to aim at us again. As if London didn't take a big enough poundin' last time around! They're sayin' the battle for the skies was only the beginning."

"Why London?" Farley inquired, unable to keep his eyes from the windows as if a fleet of Kraut planes were about to zoom over the darkening skies.

"Why d'you think, chap? The PM's here and a good lot of soldiers, along with all the higher-up military folk. B'sides, they're the Germans, they don't care who they kill to get when they want."

His face illuminated by his amber drink, Farley looked down to the table with a frown. "That's twisted."

Clint leaned over in his seat and rapped his knuckles against Farley's temple. "Knock on wood, gentlemen. I'm not gettin' bombed on my first night in London."

The British soldiers' eyes grew bright as they observed their American compatriots in a new light. "Your first time here? And you haven't even gotten to see the queen yet?"

"I told you!" Farley jabbed a finger in Clint's direction, only to fall back into his seat at the laughter of the soldiers. A red blush bloomed across his cheeks, which he disguised behind his tankard of beer.

"Oh, but there's loads to see in town! We haven't even scraped the surface!" the dark-haired soldier began, but his attention wandered to the windows. Above the wailing of a trumpet solo, the voices of soldiers and civilians alike rose to a simmering tide. The record scratched to a stop and Clint stood to get a better view of the ruckus when he heard the dull vibrations shaking the city.

One after another, the throbbing pulses drilled up Clint's heels and into the buildings of London. Window panes rattled at the sound of the eerie march, and as the pounding neared the circle drive erupted in hysterics.

"It's the Krauts! They've come to kill us all!" a young girl screamed from the doorway, and everyone in the bar leaped to their feet in a scramble for the doorway. Tears erupted from the eyes of both soldier and civilian, and Clint was caught up in the swarm to flee the premises. Disentangling himself from the horde, he pushed back to the table where the Limey soldiers and his friends stood, too shocked to move from their seats.

Owen was the first to react, thumping his hat against Farley's head and shoulders with a vengeance. "Damn you, Farley, you've gone and jinxed it!"

"I didn't, I didn't!" Farley cried, looking near tears as he pulled himself away from Owen's barrage.

Mirrored expressions of horror started back at Clint as he observed his small band. The British soldiers watched with mouths agape as the first trails of smoke began to rise over their city, and the screech of airplane engines shredded through any calm that had settled over the pub minutes earlier. Tony and the girl at the bar stood clutched in each other's arms; it was hard to tell who was holding the other tighter.

"God, we're gonna die," Farley whimpered, pulling his arms around himself and rocking back and forth in his seat.

"We're not gonna die. Listen up! We need to get to shelter – a basement or something. Don't you have air raid shelters for this sort of thing?" Clint directed the latter comment towards the soldiers, who were startled out of their shock and began to rise from their seats.

"Yeah, yeah... There's one just around the corner. Let's go!" Like a proper regiment they jumped from their seats and double-timed towards the door in an orderly line, shaking hands clenched at their sides. Tony, Steve and Owen quickly followed, but Farley stayed glued to seat. The kid refused to budge when Clint urged him to the door.

The floorboards of the pub trembled as a shell punched into the grounds of London, sending a trickle of dust from the ceiling to Clint's collar. He brushed it away and tugged on Farley's arm, but the sailor would not budge. "C'mon, Farley, we gotta go."

The boy's eyes filled with tears and he grasped Clint's forearm painfully tight, his fingers whitening as he tugged him closer. "Seaman Barton, sir, if I'm gonna die I gotta tell you something. I ain't eighteen, sir!" A soft sob escaped his throat and he dragged a hand through his hair, shaking from head to toe. "I shouldn't even be in the Navy! Now I'm gonna die... I ain't even been kissed, sir!"

"I'm afraid I can't help you with that, Farley. But I can make sure you don't die in this pub, if you'll get your _ass out of that chair!_ "

The words tore free from his mouth in the imitation of the LC's barking commands. Clint's tone was enough to force Farley to his feet, and he tugged the kid along by his shirtsleeve as they ran out the pub's door and into the streets.

"Come on! O'er here!" the telling strains of a British accent directed Clint to the corner, and he started to sprint towards the cluster of sailors and soldiers waiting for him there. He ducked his head as the German planes wheeled around for another assault, their engines whining in a continuous roar as they carved the sky above London into white-trailed puzzle pieces. Vibrations shook the sidewalk and Farley stumbled to keep his footing behind Clint as they barreled through the crowds of terrified Londoners, shoving their way to the corner of the street.

Suddenly Tony and Steve began to wave their arms back and forth above their heads, gesturing frantically. Clint turned back to Farley and pointed to their position.

"What are they saying?" he shouted over the din of the passersby and the airplanes, and Farley released a shout of shock before the shell drilled into the pub they had just exited.

Clint was thrown from his feet against a nearby taxi, a sharp ringing overtaking his senses as he was blinded by the smoke. Sweltering heat rose from the skeleton of the pub as flames overtook its rafters, and billowing smoke formed another pillar up to the wheeling Kraut planes observing their handiwork from a safe distance. Pulling himself to hands and knees, Clint brushed the glass and cement dust from his now-stained uniform and shielded his face from the rapidly spreading smoke. Farley lay sprawled behind him, looking more surprised than injured, and Clint grabbed his sleeve once again and dragged him to his feet.

"You were right! Oh, Christ, we've gotta get out of here!" Any semblance of the terror that had paralyzed Farley was gone. His near brush with death was enough to light his tail end on fire and send him sprinting for all he was worth to the corner.

"Okay?" Steve shouted in Clint's ear, barely audible from the incessant ringing from the concussion bomb.

"Just peachy. Where's that shelter?"

The big soldier pointed halfway down the street, where the British soldiers were escorting civilians down a short set of steps into the basement of a quaint, whitewashed building. The peace of the London evening had been shattered, the instincts of the soldiers kicking into gear as they kept the civilians in orderly lines into safety. Clutching his tattered hat to his head, Farley fell into line behind Owen, who embraced him quickly before promptly socking him hard on the jaw.

"What was that for?" Farley grimaced, wiping a smear of crimson across his chin.

"That's for almost dying, you idiot! Next time Barton tells you to do something, you goddamn do it!"

Streams of Londoners poured from the houses and streets towards their respective air raid shelters, rushing during the breaks in the bombing to reach safety. Facilitated by the many soldiers around the streets, the process seemed to run smoothly. Clint noticed a few odd details in the clockwork motions of the civilians – a child sitting in the middle of the street sobbing for her missing mother, a shell-shocked women clutching her head and staggering to and fro across the street, and a trigger-happy coot firing his pistol into the air before soldiers convened on him.

Clint found a place in line beside Tony, who was comforting the girl from the bar as she cried on his shoulder. A low doorway rose above his head as he descended the stairs into a stuffy, foul-smelling basement already crammed with people. Lighting was practically nonexistent, save the small circles of cigarettes that hadn't been snuffed out yet, and Clint was pushed back against the _Reuben James_ boys as more and more people were wedged into the space. The small sliver of light from the doorway ground shut as the British soldiers closed the door, sealing off any contact with the outside world.

"Real cheery," Owen grumbled, and Clint realized he was standing on the sailor's toes.

"Wait a minute," a tap on his shoulder indicated that Tony was trying to draw his attention. "We're missing someone. Where's Steve?"

 _The Battle of Britain: Military campaign when the RAF (Royal Air Force) defended Britain from attacks by the Luftwaffe (German Air Force)_

 _Thank you so much for your feedback! :)_


	12. The Liberator

_"They fight not for the lust of conquest._

 _They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate."_

 _\- President Franklin D. Roosevelt_

* * *

 _London, England; July 22, 1941_

The anti-aircraft gun was situated in the middle of a nearby park, half-obscured from the smoke of a bomb that had killed its operators. Steve had only noticed the upright barrel as he was about to descend into the air raid shelter, and he knew there were more important things to do than huddle in the dark and wait for the danger to disappear.

Darting across the street through the stragglers running for shelter, he leaped over the short fence surrounding the area and onto the plush grounds of the park. The greens were deserted, leaving behind the remnants of an afternoon of relaxation in the wake of the German bombers: picnic baskets sat upended, children's' playthings abandoned in the desperate rush for safety.

Massive shells as tall as Steve's waist stood like rows of soldiers beside the massive gun. Steve had never operated such a gun in his life, but he observed the mechanism of the structure from all angles and began to mentally dissect it.

"Okay," he muttered under his breath, fingers pressed against the hard metal structure, "This hatch is where you load the shell. This viewfinder is for the sight, and this lever adjusts the gun's angle. I can do this."

He swung open the breech-block and peered into the barrel to make sure it was already empty. Hefting one of the shells in his arms, Steve positioned it in the gun's barrel and latched it shut. A bag of gunpowder was stuffed into the containment area. Immediately a whirring buzz rumbled from the barrel and a blinking light sparked to life, flashing a staccato of yellow behind a pane of thick, clear plastic. Had he done something wrong?

Frantically Steve observed the rest of the gun again, trying to find any switch or knob that would alert him he was able to fire. The sooner the better, too – the screech of the German engines were returning in full force, and he watched as the bombers wheeled about and began their descent to deposit another payload of explosives. A sickening smell filled Steve's nose, and he saw a nearby barrage balloon on fire from the beating it had taken, wilting in the heat.

"Oh, come on!" Steve pounded a fist against the side of the gun in frustration, which served only to bruise his knuckles. He was about to abandon his plan and hurry back to the shelter when the yellow light snapped to a steady green. Whooping with surprise, Steve manipulated the levers to angle the shell towards the group of German fighters.

By searching through the enhanced view of the sights, Steve was able to determine the make of the German planes. The forms of five Messerschmitt Bf bombers peeled away from their vantage points in the sky and descended directly towards Steve's position manning the gun. He was pleased to notice they were the more lightly armored F-versions of the formidable plane series, so he wouldn't have to worry about attacks from the wing root guns, but he would still be a goner if any of those bombs landed on top of his head. No secret serum could repair him if his limbs were scattered miles around the park.

Steve yanked down on the lever and cranked back his arm, jumping away from the gun as it kicked back and catapulted the shell into the sky with a deafening crash. Clamping his hands over his ears, he was spared from the sound of the explosion firing mere feet from him, but the blast still sent a shockwave through the ground.

His careful aiming was rewarded as the first Messerschmitt erupted into a fiery inferno, its light defenses buckling under the force of the shell. The blaze ignited the engine of a second plane, which turned away and headed back toward the Channel with a stream of black trailing through the sky like blood.

The three remaining planes zoomed above Steve, the sound from their engines rattling his teeth as he stood totally exposed beside a clear target. He dove under the cover of a dense canopy of trees as the planes unloaded their loads, scattering bombs across the nearby streets and into the earth of the park where Steve hunkered without cover. Making himself as small a target possible, Steve curled into a ball and covered his ears again as the bombs rained fire and brimstone on the streets of London. Earth was flung into the air like fountains, filling the world with the stench of gunpowder and smoke.

Trees were shredded, buildings buckled under the force of the bombs, and Steve could only lie on his side and pray with all his might that he might survive this wave of attacks.

Just when it seemed the blasts would never end, a moment of silence brought Steve's head upright. His clothes were covered in upturned dirt and mud, gunpowder clogged his nostrils and he could hardly hear out of one ear, but he was otherwise unhurt from the German assault. He picked himself up from the ground, shaking the mud from his clothes as he ran back to the anti-aircraft gun and loaded another huge shell into position.

This time the light flashed immediately to green as if the machine could sense Steve's urgency. By drawing back on a two-pronged instrument, he was able to angle the gun's barrel completely in reverse of its original position, facing the planes as they turned back to make another sweep of the park. Steve was determined to make sure they didn't even come close.

Flipping the viewfinder around, Steve surveyed the German planes as they performed a textbook about-face and started bearing down toward him again. He would submit to the German pilots only this: they were certainly skilled in their flying abilities. It wasn't enough to keep him from shooting them down, however.

The dials aligned perfectly and Steve yanked back on the lever to fire, the massive gun leaping backward beneath him as it fired the shell towards the Germans. Once again, the center plane was struck dead-on, but the pilots on the left and right had the sense to pull away before the flames incapacitated their aircraft as well.

Trails of dirt kicked up in even lines leading up to the anti-aircraft gun and Steve ducked behind the structure. The Germans unloaded their fuselage guns on him, the snapping of bullets pinging off of the metal structure like popcorn as they attempted to neutralize the threat. Steve only felt more alone and exposed by the minute, but he pushed these doubts aside and leveled to gun toward his two remaining enemies with determination. Armed like they were, these two planes could wreak untold havoc on the civilians of London, and Steve couldn't bear the thought of civilians falling prey to their bombs and machine guns.

Once again the planes turned and prepared to go after Steve and his pesky anti-aircraft fire for a final time. Steve could admire their persistence as well, but he needed a way to take both planes out at the same time. He had loaded his final shell into the anti-aircraft gun, and without ammunition he would be a sitting duck for German steel and explosives.

Focusing the sight once more, Steve angled the crosshairs towards the left wing of the rightmost plane. If he timed his attack just right, he could detonate the shell in midair and take both planes out with him. He would have to attack quickly, while the Germans were still in the air – the closer they got to the surface, the more of a threat they posed to crashing into buildings and claiming more innocent lives. Nudging the angle of the gun barrel slightly upward, Steve thrust his arm back and dragged the lever down for one final firing of the gun.

The shell arced in a graceful curve towards the two planes as they glided far above the city streets before they had even begun their descent. A shot from so far away was easily visible and even more easily evaded, but the Germans must have been as surprised about Steve's early attack as Steve was himself. Neither made an effort to move out of the way as the shell tore through the left wing of the second plane. The impact drove the plane's momentum in a wide arc and directly into the first plane, metal crunching in midair as the two crafts collided and burst into a brilliant explosion of red and yellow above the city skyline. Bits of scrap metal pattered down onto the street, too small to be harmful, and flames roiled in the air as the gasoline burned off and vanished in a belching black cloud of smoke.

Steve stepped away from the gun, mopping his brow and giving his handiwork a grin of satisfaction. The silence had lasted only a minute when a thundering of applause sounded from the street. He turned to see a crowd of people assembled by the fence of the park, eyes bright and fists thrust into the air. Were they cheering for _him?_

The shutter of ten cameras flashed and babbling voices swelled over each other as Steve approached the fence. His eyes scanned the crowd for Tony, Clint, or any of the men from the _Reuben James_ , but he was met with smart-looking reporters thrusting recorders into his face.

"'Scuse me, sir, wouldja mind giving me a quote for the paper? What happened up there?"

"Who on earth are you, my good man? American? British?"

"American," Steve called back absently, standing on his toes to continue his search. "Please, I'm just looking for my friends..."

"Where are you from, mister...?"

Instincts kicked in and Steve had to resist extending his hand to shake with the portly reporter. "Steve Rogers, sir. U.S. Army."

The cluster of reporters pushed closer, some hanging over the gate. Camera flashes bathed the park in a second sunrise, half-blinding Steve as he continued his search.

"Ah, a military man! What seized you to defend these civilians like you did?"

Steve turned to face the man and looked at him with a level gaze. "Nothing seized me, sir. There were civilians in danger and those Germans were threatening their lives. Anyone would have done the same thing in my position."

Pencils scribbled against paper to write his quote down, and before Steve could take another breath a barrage of questions erupted from the crowd.

"Mr. Rogers, would you mind giving a quote for _Punch_?"

"Look this way, Yank!"

"Excuse me, I have to find my friends," Steve broke away from the crush of reporters and ran down the length of the fence until he found a spot that wasn't packed with onlookers. Leaping over the barrier with one motion, he jogged across the street to the entrance of the safe house. Civilians poured from the doors as the All-Clear sound continued its whooping above the streets of London – Steve hadn't heard the siren begin with the onslaught of newsmen chasing after him. The tide turned to a trickle as the last of the shelter-goers exited the doors, followed by the British soldiers and _Reuben James_ crew.

"You're alive! Where'd you run off to, then?" Farley jabbed a finger towards the sky. "Didn't you see those planes up there?"

"Yes, well... I shot them down," Steve rubbed the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed by all of the attention he was getting from his escapades with the anti-aircraft gun. Farley's jaw dropped, and the British soldiers clapped him on the back in a gesture of thanks. A few Londoners lingered by their small group, staring up at Steve with wonder and admiration. The pack of newsmen stood a careful distance away, pens poised.

"Let's find someplace to hole up for the night. Any of you know of a good hotel around here?" Tony turned to the tallest of the British men, who laughed in response.

"A hotel? You've shot down bombers from our skies, rescued British lives, and you expect to stay in some soldiers' home? You stay with us tonight. My place isn't but a twenty minute walk from here, and we have plenty of room for all of you... So long as you don't mind sleeping on couches, that is."

"Are you kidding? I've been sleeping on a burlap sack for the past few weeks. A couch sounds like heaven!" Owen whooped, and Steve felt a similar rush of exhilaration. A home-cooked meal that hadn't come from the cans of the _Reuben James_ storerooms seemed like heaven.

The change that fell over London was unbelievable following the bombing. Cheery conversation rang out across the street, with friends calling to each other and children darting between the legs of their parents. In a strange way, the air raid appeared to have fortified them. No one appeared to be traumatized or even injured.

"Is this normal in London?" Steve asked, and the portly English soldier followed his gaze to the crowds.

"We've been enduring bombing raids from the Germans for over a year now. Add a young American hero to the mix, and the experience comes off as almost pleasant." He noticed Steve's confused expression and chuckled. "London is used to it by now, believe me."

A sobering feeling fell over Steve as he ducked his head. Back in America he didn't have to worry about being bombed or rationing... The situation in England was direr than he had previously expected.

"Lori and mother with be glad to see you all. Real American soldiers! My sister might ask for your autograph," the tall soldier winked and Tony straightened suddenly.

"A sister, huh? Has her sweetheart gone off to war as well?"

The soldier shook his head and observed Tony's hopeful expression with a sardonic smile on his face. "Lori doesn't have a sweetheart. If any of you Yanks make a move on her I'll make sure you end your days with the barrel of a rifle up your arse."

Tony's smile sagged and he looked away, crestfallen. "Ah, of course."

The residential streets appeared wholly unscathed as the small band wandered back to the soldier's home. Red brick and white trimming starkly contrasted the blackened windows, giving a very Nazi-like color scheme to the neighborhood. Steve had never been outside of New York before, but he imagined Berlin would look very drab and dull bedecked in monochrome and scarlet. Pops of color stood out across the street: a porch overflowing with vases of green vines, or the flash of a blue dress as a woman pulled her young daughter inside the house. From beyond the street a party was in full swing. Steve could hear the strains of a saxophone over the rush of the wind and the hushed chatter of the British soldiers as they neared home.

"Albert Thomas Abel!" a stern voice called from the doorway, and the tall soldier looked up and waved at a frowning woman standing on the porch with her hands placed firmly on her hips. A blue apron hung from her waist, stained with flour dough. A young girl stood behind her mother and peered over her shoulder hesitantly, then grinned and dashed down the stairs to jump into the tall soldier's arms.

"Abe! You're back!" she cried, and the soldier tugged on one of her braids playfully.

"How goes it, Lori? Mum, come meet these chaps, they're from America!"

Abel's mother remained stiff as she descended the stairs, sizing the men up as well as any company commander. "Yanks, hmm?"

Steve took the initiative to step forward and extend his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Abel. Steve Rogers." The woman's eyes softened at the gesture and she shook his hand, introducing herself to the _Reuben James_ boys and the other British soldiers, who she greeted with familiarity.

"Oh, you all look exhausted." All semblance of stiffness gone, the woman placed a hand against Farley's cheek with a warm smile on her face. "And do try not to track too much dirt into the house when you come in, will you?"

Steve's uniform was practically caked in mud from the park, so he took off his shoes and left them on the doorstep. As he stepped through the threshold a wave of warmth passed over him, along with the smell of cooking chicken and a thousand other delicious smells that made him go weak in the knees. The feeling appeared to be mutual as Sabin sighed loudly and Farley's stomach gave a mutinous growl. Lori laughed with the sound of a clear bell and she pulled Farley over to a chair, dragging in stools and seats from other rooms of the house to make room for all of the soldiers. Soon the kitchen was transformed into a room of warmth and activity.

"Albert, grab one of your friends and have them dice the vegetables," The woman instructed from her position near the sink, turning over strips of genuine chicken in a pan. Steve was salivating just thinking about the upcoming meal, and watching the women of the house prepare it was absolutely unbearable. Farley leaped forward and started after the vegetables with a passion. He wasn't the only one blatantly staring at Lori's fine features – Sabin and Stark appeared equally smitten.

As Steve sat back in his chair, the scent of a home-cooked meal lingering around him and the warmth of the hearth fuel him, the world of Nazis and gravesites and the Red Army seemed miles away. A lone thought trailed through his mind as he observed the scene before him: the British soldiers laughing at a joke, the flush of excitement that tinted the room in a rosy haze.

 _I can get used to this._

 _(Thank you so much for your support! I would love to hear what you think of the story so far!)_


	13. A Late-Night Excursion

_"The best political weapon is the weapon of terror.  
_

 _Cruelty commands respect. Men may hate us._

 _But we do not ask for their love; only for their fear."_

 _\- Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer-SS_

* * *

 _London, England; July 23, 1941_

Night had long since fallen, but the soldiers remained awake discussing the more delicate topics they had deigned not to bring up during pleasant dinner conversation. Lori had offered to patch up the various cuts and scrapes Clint and Farley had acquired from their short run-in with German artillery. Both had insisted they were fine, but Lori's face was too eager to resist. Tony believed that she also wanted to hear the stories her brother and his friends had become entangled in as well.

"Did you face off with the German tanks? What are they called again?"

"Panzers," Tony added, and Lori gave him an absent nod before turning back to Farley. Her fingertip was smeared with an ointment that she daubed on the minor cuts peppering Farley's side; his face reddened by the minute from the special attention he was receiving. Tony watched the scene unfold with confidence. A dame had never ignored him for long, and Lori wouldn't be an exception.

"Not us, that's for sure. They have whole divisions for that sort of thing. Besides, who wants to be in a tank in an African summer? I've heard the things are pressure cookers – before you know it you're getting scalded through your boots and you'll be dead before the Krauts even attack you!" an earnest British soldier chimed in, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on his hands.

"It sounds just awful!" Lori exclaimed, giving Farley a brilliant smile that turned the kid's face to a ruddy eggplant. "I don't know how you manage it."

"Well, um..." Farley stammered for a response, turning to Tony with a gesture for help.

"What Farley means to say is, we don't mind that sort of thing. It's the life of a soldier, and we've seen far worse already." Tony winked at Farley, who sagged in his seat with relief and flashed him a thumbs-up.

Lori turned to Clint next, who looked slightly embarrassed as he rolled up his shirt. "What could possibly be worse than boiling in a can?"

"Well, Steve and I here escaped from a zeppelin that was shot down by a German submarine." Shrugging his shoulders as if it were no big deal, Tony sat back in his seat as Lori and the British soldiers gawked at him.

"You're pullin' my leg!" the stout soldier cried, and Tony shook his head triumphantly.

"It's the truth, I tell you! We were flying about over the Atlantic, minding our own business, when a U-boat emerges from the seas and starts firing with all she's got! It was lucky for us there was a spare glider handy, and we escaped to be rescued by these sailors here."

All of the soldiers were engaged in Tony's tale, leaning over the tablecloth to get a better view of the storyteller. Lori paused her task of bandaging to give Tony her full attention, and the British soldiers' faces concealed their thinly veiled impatience as he paused.

"The glider would only get us so far because the zeppelin wasn't incredibly high in the air to begin with, seeing as it was ripped to shreds with German fire and burning to a crisp. There was no hope of reaching the coast, but Steve and I weren't about to die at the hands of those beasts. As the glider crashed into the waves, we made our peace with our short and feeble lives."

"Correction – I think _he_ made peace with his life." Steve jabbed a finger towards Tony, who rolled his eyes and continued.

"Whatever you say, meatlug. Anyways, all seemed lost until Seaman Barton fell from the sky like an angel to save our meager souls," Tony spread his hands and Clint scoffed, waving him off.

"Oh, sure."

"Steve and I were dragged from the seas by a few noble, brave sailors, and that's how we got here today," Tony finished with a flourish, grinning at Lori as he did so. The British soldiers applauded, Clint buried his face in his hands and Farley's jaw practically fell to his knees. This was how Tony was used to dinnertime discussions, with anyone from a group of strangers at a bar to government officials. He commanded the spotlight.

The British soldiers sat riveted to their seats, waiting with bated breath as Tony quirked an eyebrow. He nodded with satisfaction at their incredulous responses. Even Steve, who had witnessed the entire incident himself, looked impressed with Tony's retelling of the adventure. This was Tony's strong suit: he could make them believe anything, even if the truth deviated ever so slightly. Well, maybe a little more than _slightly._ It made for quite the story, evidenced by the intense expressions fixed on the faces of his audiences.

"It's remarkable! To survive such an ordeal... Simply incredible!" Lori gushed, her eyes sparkling as she turned away from Clint to face Tony. So _this_ was his way in for the girl – war stories. Farley looked a little sour that Lori had looked away from him, but Clint only raised his eyebrows in an expression of humorous suspicion.

"And of all the places to get stuck on, we're stuck on the _Reuben James_ ," Tony began, and Sabin waved his arms in a gesture to silence him.

"Oh, don't you start dissing my ship!" he cried, and Clint followed suit.

"I've scrubbed every inch of that thing!"

Tony rolled his eyes at this and Lori simpered, the final key filling into the puzzle. Who would take a deck swabber over a rugged adventurer? Lori certainly wouldn't, and Tony knew this all too well.

And just like that, his record still remained perfect.

-o0o-

Night had long since fallen on London, and Tony could see the edging of a brilliant dawn peeking over the buildings of the city streets. The bustle of the air raid and the frenzy that had crammed the streets fell silent as Tony wandered. The streets were only frequented by a few staggering drunks, mostly soldiers and a few civilians. Darker sides of souls burned in the shades of the falling moon. This was when the soldiers broke – this was when Tony saw fear in their eyes.

Tony shook his head with a low laugh. He might follow the example of the soldiers and get a drink if he kept thinking poetic hogwash like this.

London was familiar, of course, but he had never seen it in such a personal light. The soldiers crouching over their Scotch, Lori's twinkling eyes and her twisted fascination for war stories. When Tony had been forced to tag along with Howard on business trips he had dragged his feet through Parliament and the country homes of fat businessmen. The city was raw and bleeding, a sort of cutting-edge madness and excitement pumping through the veins of those who lived to see another day.

A burst of mellow jazz music sounded from a nearby bar, and Tony lingered by the door with a group of young soldiers debating if they should go in and try their first drink of liquor. British, obviously underage, the kids vacillated between confident swaggers towards the door and falling back to their friends with a laugh and a weak joke. Tony broke the tension by stepping in, ducking under the low-hanging doorframe that would probably hit the supersoldier about mid-chest, and entered the dim lighting and smoky air of the bar.

A jazz quartet wailed a mournful tune in the corner, masking the lowered voices of the customers as they bent lower in their booths and rickety tables. The air smelled like cleaning fluid, dust and something sour, which matched the atmosphere in every other pub in the London area. Typically there was some kind of festivity going on during these times, but the rogue bombers had sobered the Londoners. Sobered wouldn't be the right word, though – many were cradling their mugs with the protectiveness of a parent.

Tony's contact sat in the corner of the pub. He was positioned strategically so he could see everyone enter and exit, their gestures, and where they kept their weapons if a fight broke out. A worn trench coat and a greasy newspaper disguised him in a mask of anonymity. If Tony hadn't been keeping an eye out for him, he would have hardly noticed the man holed up in the corner booth.

His feet stuck to the ground as he strode over, each footstep leaving a ripping noise behind as he pulled his shoe soles away from the tacky vinyl tiles. The man glanced upright, his hooded eyes displaying casual disinterest as Tony slid into the booth and glanced over his shoulder.

"Nasty what happened today," the man muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. Lukewarm, with the barest trace of steam rising from the yellowed mug. "I'm not all that interested in the war, to be honest. So long as we aren't in it, you know?"

The man's accent was American, but it was just another aspect of his disguise. Tony knew the man as George Dasch, a graduate of the German High Command school trained in espionage and specializing in sabotage. He didn't like the man _per se_ , but his technical knowledge and position of relative freedom in the German command structure made him optimal for Tony's purposes.

"To business," Tony crossed his arms, making known to Dasch that he wasn't here to make small talk.

"A man of action – that I can appreciate. What have you brought forward to me today?" Folding his paper and placing it to the side, Dasch smiled and swept a hand through his well-greased hair. His smile was lopsided, offset by features that appeared to have been stretched by putty. Certainly no Aryan superman.

"I have information concerning the serum you have such interest in."

Dasch scoffed, tilting his head and twisting his lips in a wry expression. "It is not my interest, but the interest of... My people. We would hate to see the doctor's efforts wreak havoc on the innocent."

Waving these comments aside, Tony leaned forward until his chest pressed against the table. "I do not have a working formula. Neither does your science division, I believe?"

This was a bit of information Tony was sure Dasch didn't know he had, but the man's face remained as impassive as always. "No, we haven't. The last one had some... Side effects."

Tony knit his eyebrows, surprised at this turn of events. "He would take an incomplete prototype? Is he suicidal?"

"Schmidt is a fool. But this is not why we have met, is it?" Dasch drummed his fingertips against the table in rhythm with the quartet, dark eyes staring into Tony's. They were devoid of any warmth, soulless pits with sparks of intelligence behind them. Tony squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable under such an intense stare, but he forced himself to maintain his composure. He would not be intimidated by anyone, not even a man of Dasch's caliber.

"I may have headway on the serum. Reproduced in its complete form, you could have a division of these enhanced individuals."

"Tell me something I do not know, young Stark, or I am afraid our business transaction will no longer be mutually efficient," Dasch growled, and a flutter of panic leaped in Tony's chest. Without the Germans he would be out of options. America wouldn't listen, Italy was out of the question, Russia was, well, _Russia_ , and the British were too busy in North Africa to bother with him. He _needed_ this deal to work out.

Flattening his palms on the table, Tony met Dasch's calculating stare and glowered at him. "I know why the serum didn't work with Schmidt. The old fool of a doctor told Rogers something before he died – the serum makes good become great, and the bad become worse. It alters the chemical structure of the brain, exemplifying the best and the worst of an individual. That's why Schmidt is a madman and Rogers is shooting planes down from the sky during an air raid."

Dasch sniffed, smearing a drop of coffee on the side of his mug with disinterest. "How do I know you are not lying to me? Trying to save your own skin?"

Rage prickled beneath Tony's skin, and he felt the package in his coat burn against his chest. Dasch knew he was desperate, but nobody played Tony Stark and got away with it. "Rogers told me on the ship. He knows more about it than anyone we can find nearby. He practically regurgitated the entire case to me when I asked him about it."

The German leaned back in the booth, eyes flickering towards the pub's entrance as the group of soldiers finally stumbled through the doors with hushed whispers and boyish laughter. "This is a development for our side of the matter. How ridiculously sentimental. You've done well this time, Stark."

Tony should have been gratified, but Dasch's smirking sneer brought him no encouragement. "Sir, if I could perhaps present something to you...The plans I've been working on, the ones I brought forward a while ago..."

In response Dasch stood in one fluid motion, brushing a hand down the front of his coat and smoothing back his oily hair. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, kid. Pick up the bill, will you?"

Without a handshake in farewell Dasch stalked off, leaving Tony cursing his luck. He fished his wallet out from his pocket, dropping a few coins beside the half-empty cup of coffee, and pulled out the small parcel from his inside coat pocket.

The paper packaging was wrinkled and warped from water damage, but Tony knew the designs inside were intact. He had each paper memorized to a stray pencil mark – the blueprints were his pride and joy. Maybe Howard had been right. Forget super soldiers, _this_ could cause a lasting change to the war. The technology was beyond its time, but Tony knew he would be able to construct it easily.

He had kept his magnum opus away from Howard, because he knew exactly what would happen to it. His father would bluster about its worth, and how Tony was disregarding the war effort and a thousand other excuses to whip up as he driveled on, then he would snatch the plans away and lock them up in a secure location where they would never see the light of day again.

Nazi, Fascists, British, American – what did it all matter? So long as Tony's work was put to good use, he would be satisfied. It didn't matter where or when. He wanted to know his work was valued, and right now his only inroads to that sort of closure were through Dasch.

Placing the parcel back in his pocket, Tony stood and wandered back into the cool London night. The streets were suddenly much more forbidding than they had been before. The night sky lightened as a chilling reality settled over Tony, blanketing his mind with disgust and anger.

For the first time in his life, Tony Stark was useless.

 _What do you think this magnum opus is? Thanks for your support and reviews! :)_


	14. Wolf Pack

_"Life is a matter of luck,_ _and the odds in favor of success_

 _are in no way enhanced by extreme caution."_

 _\- Erich Topp, U-552 commander_

* * *

 _Atlantic Shipping Lanes; August 7, 1941_

Steve got his first taste of command when Agent Carter elected to put him at the head of the _Reuben James_ crew's physical training.

There had been no announcement of her impromptu addition to the crew. He only noticed when there was a new member of the day's officer meetings. Carter was a ranking British officer whose looks the sailors swooned over, but her boxy Army uniform and continually downturned lips dissuaded them from making any advances. Besides the fact that she would probably break their necks if they tried - Carter was en route to Tunisia to train the troops there, and her tactical military knowledge was all but absolute.

Over the course of their calisthenics sessions Steve had gotten to know the men personally, and the results were instantaneous. Pride hung in the balance of their exercise – now that Steve knew a man's hometown and favorite baseball team, he could throw out an offhand comment to pull the sailors back into action. He refrained from these personal jabs as often as he could, and the other sailors often did his work for him when a man fell behind.

There was a certain isolation to being the science experiment of Steve Rogers, but he felt that loneliness start to dissipate as he reached out to the sailors. He knew which ones smoked, which ones drank, and which did both. He learned the names of sweethearts, real and imagined, and family members stationed elsewhere or who were about to be called up to serve. He discovered their hopes and their fears, and he was always ready to talk to anyone about anything from politics to disputes over a man stealing his friend's Lucky Strikes.

A remarkable transformation had occurred over the two weeks of Steve's leadership on the _Reuben James_ , both public and personal. The sailors were stronger mentally and physically, from both their PT and Agent Carter's nightly tactical sessions. Any question of her merit for officer ranking vanished during her first session. Carter commanded the floor in a room packed full of tired sailors, leading them in a crash course of attacking enemy encampments with only a knife and a compass. Her tactical skills were brilliant, and she was able to draw in every eye when she described missions and strategies, long-fought battles and future plans.

Everyone learned something in those night sessions. Steve realized that it took more than textbooks to master something, when his knowledge of training manuals paled in comparison to Agent Carter's combat experience. Even Steve found that in a mere two weeks he was able to pick up any of the Navy boys' jobs easily, from radioman to gunner. Every sailor became an expert in his particular station, fine-tuned by Agent Carter's tactical approach and the officers' mastery of their instruments.

Even Carter herself could pick up a thing or two from the soldiers, which evidenced itself during one late-night meeting when she displayed ideal Army gear as an example for the sailors should they find themselves thrust into a land-based combat situation. She picked up a dark green helmet, webbed on the top with black mesh and woven with brown and green fabric straps to simulate foliage, and clipped it under her chin.

"Agent Carter, you shouldn't be clipping your helmet!" a voice called from the center of the room, and Steve didn't have to look to see that it was Clint. He was surrounded by his posse of friends and looked ever so slightly smug as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"And why is that, Seaman?"

"Well, ma'am, if you're getting shelled the wave from the blasts'll lift your helmet from your head and snap your neck."

After that memorable lesson, dangling helmet straps were a necessity for sailors. Steve thought he saw an officer punishing a seaman for buckling his straps one day, so it appeared Clint's statement had had a strong effect on even the Navy higher-ups on board.

Steve's close relations with the sailors contrasted the parallel life he knew he was leading with Lieutenant Edwards and the _Reuben James_ officers. He wasn't quite sure, but something about Tony Stark and Steve's transformation had merited close connections with the crew. Confidential information, recent news about the war waging in North Africa and the tangled politics of Europe, and future shipments were all addressed during mandatory meetings in the middle of the day when the sailors were manning their stations or performing chores. Steve's job was very minor, simply updating the officers on the physical and mental status of the men. He didn't like to pretend he was any more important than such a task, despite how much the sailors attempted to play up his "secret meetings" during conversation.

Steve's day was a whirlwind of activity, from waking up at the crack of dawn for calisthenics to officer meetings and Carter's night sessions, and he was profoundly exhausted when he collapsed into his bunk at ungodly hours in the night. But he wouldn't trade it for the world.

In one of his spare moments of free time, when Agent Carter had dismissed the sailors after a brief lesson on managing gunshot wounds, Steve reclined on his bunk with a newspaper propped against his knees. The articles were grim as always, depicting ruinous conditions in France and the plight of the mass exodus of the Jewish people as the Germans swept over all of Europe.

A shadow fell over his bunk and Steve looked up to see the bulky form of Joe Biehl standing over him, clasping his large hands in front of him and looking distinctly embarrassed. Immediately a list of attributes flashed before Steve's mind: _Seaman, volunteer, has a kid in Milwaukee._

"What can I do for you, Joe?" he asked, and Biehl licked his lips before responding. His eyes flashed to the left and right and he rocked forward on his heels, making sure no one was watching their exchange.

"I gotta tell ya somethin', sir. It's just that... Jesus, I'm a damned fool. Sir, I've been hearing rumblings about the U-boats 'n all, and I just wanted to say... I'm scared, sir!"

Steve's gaze flickered to both sides out of force of habit, but he met Biehl's damp stare with a pleasant expression. "I'd be scared if you weren't, Joe. What worries you the most?"

Looking relieved Steve wasn't ridiculing him, Biehl sat on the bunk opposite Steve and tapped his thick fingers against his knees. "I got a little girl back home, sir, an' I wanna see her grow up with me around. I wanna see her ride a bike and scare the firs' boy she brings home, an' I can't do that if a Kraut's shootin' me down!"

"Biehl, do you trust the sailors on this ship with your life?"

Biehl's head jolted up and down in a frantic nod. "Yessir, more than ever. We all know each other better than every, thanks to you, sir. I hope you don't my comin' and askin' you these things, sir."

"Anytime. How old is your daughter?"

Face flushing with pride, Biehl dug around in his pockets and drew out a battered leather wallet. A small photograph slid from its first pocket, an image of a tiny infant cradled in the arms of a lovely young woman. "Four months, sir. Jamie reckons she looks like me, but I say the opposite."

"She's beautiful, Biehl," Steve smiled and the sailor flushed with pride.

"So you can see why I'd wanna get back home, sir?"

"Seaman, I will promise you this here and now. It is my goal to equip you and the sailors on board with the skills that will protect you on the battlefield, and you are no exception. You _will_ get home, Biehl, I swear it myself."

A relieved grin spread across Biehl's broad features and he shook Steve's hand with a vigorous pump of his arm. "You're a good man, sir, a real good man. Thanks again."

Steve had only just propped his newspaper on his knees again when Tony strode over to his bunk and dragged the paper from his grasp. "Oh, look at all this doom and gloom. No wonder you're working the guys so hard every morning."

"Yeah, you should stop by sometime!" A sailor, most likely Owen, called back after him.

"Anyways, we've been called up again. Edwards has some news for us," Tony shrugged, looking unconcerned at the late-night summons. "He asked for us personally, so it must be a big deal."

Dragging on his boots, Steve kept his voice lowered as he attempted to make himself look somewhat presentable. "Do you have any idea what we're facing? Is the ship in danger?"

Tony gave him a wry sideways look. "We're _always_ in danger, right?"

"You know what I mean."

Despite Steve's wishes, their conversation was already drawing attention from the clusters of sailors settling down for the night. Steve stood and made his way to the door of the crew's quarters, through the nearly-deserted mess hall and up onto the deck.

Stars twinkled from their positions in the cold heavens, glimmering like tiny diamonds in a nest of velvet blue. Dark Navy uniforms blended into the the bleak sky, along with the bottom-heavy forms of the hulking British carriers a safe distance away. The night, cheery and calm minutes ago, now hung with foreboding as Steve and Tony made their way to the bridge.

Heavy boots clattered against the steps as they entered the warmth of the bridge center, with Edwards standing at the helm and the _Reuben James_ officers scattered throughout the room on a ramshackle combination of chairs and stools that had been scrounged from around the ship. Agent Carter leaned against the wall and offered Steve a small smile, which he returned with a wan sort of grimace.

"What's this about, then?" one of the officers piped up at last, whose name Steve hadn't learned yet. The only officers he knew by name were the ones the sailors liked the least and thus complained about the most often.

"We've been wired some interesting intelligence reports from stateside," Lieutenant Dewey Johnston, the _Reuben James_ ' XO and Edwards' second-in-command, gestured for a table to be dragged over in the open space of the bridge. Johnston hefted an armload of cardboard cylinders and carefully unscrewed the top of one, unrolling a massive map of the Atlantic Ocean and laying it across the oaken tabletop.

"Our route to Casablanca takes us through an area known to be frequented by U-boat wolfpacks. Circumventing the region would be too large of a drain on our fuel – we're pushing making it to Morocco as it is – but we will enter a zone where the sailors will have to be on high alert."

"You don't think they'll be so bold to fire on us, will you?" Junior Lieutenant Daub eyed the map with an incredulous expression scrawled across his features. Red lines penciled in known U-boat traffic areas, and blue lines showed the planned route of the _Reuben James_ and Allied craft that had gone before. What drew Steve's eyes most were the blue 'x' symbols traced against the light blue of the ocean, mostly congregated around Iceland.

Their meaning was clear: the location of sunken ships. Edwards' intentions were just as transparent. He did not want the _Reuben James_ to become another 'x' on a Navy map.

"Officers, equip your men with this information and continue drilling on mastery of the sailors' individual jobs, gunnery in particular. I want depth charges prepped and ready to fire every hour of the day and the crew on high alert. We are taking no chances with this mission, and I plan not to lose a ship."

Edwards turned to Agent Carter next, looking particularly solemn as he did so. "Carter, continue to train the men in nightly sessions with a focus on ammunition and artillery. And on submarines, of course. I want every man to know how to shoot every blasted gun on this ship accurately and quickly. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Carter saluted smartly, and Steve could almost see the gears turning in behind her dark eyes.

"Let me make myself clear to everyone in this room as well. The Germans have sunk the _Robin Moor,_ the _Longtaker,_ the _Steel Seafarer,_ the _Montana,_ the _Pink Star, I.C. White,_ the _W.C. Teagle,_ the _Bold Venture..._ Need I go on? The _Reuben James_ will _not_ be the next casualty on that list."

Every name fell like a physical blow on Steve's chest. He had felt secure hundreds of feet above the surface of the sea, and even after his deadly encounter with the German submarines, they still seemed to be shrouded in fantasy. Edwards' speech was eye-opening and raw with emotion. When Steve studied the LC's face, he noticed the flash of moisture in the man's eyes before he turned away.

"That is all. Dismissed."

Disquieted murmurs filled the room as Edwards stalked back to his post. Tony sidled up next to Steve and raised his eyebrows, similarly impressed by the message of the commander. A few of the lower-ranking officers clustered to the side, and Steve followed after them as they hurried up the stairs to deliver the news to the sailors.

"Never seen the LC get so emotional before. What gives?"

"Give him a rest, will ya? I heard he had a kid brother on one of the ships, one of the first ones the Krauts torpedoed. He's got every reason to emotional."

Tony grabbed Steve's sleeve and pulled him to the side, half-illuminated by the nighttime lighting that brightened the deck in choppy segments. "Who's going to break the news to the guys?"

Unlike the officers, Tony didn't seem quite as concerned about the threat of German submarines prowling hundreds of feet beneath his heels. Steve supposed that if you were a millionaire globetrotter you didn't scare easily, but Tony's unconcerned expression was slightly unnerving. "I don't know. One of the officers, I suppose."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. We're like the spectators in radio shows whenever Bridges calls those meetings – just fill the seats and clap every so often." Tony's tone was caustic, possessing a bitterness Steve hadn't heard from him. He supposed if you were a millionaire globetrotter you didn't spend much time out of the spotlight, either. This must have been a strange phenomenon for Stark.

The distant stars seemed colder than ever now, and a brisk breeze tore across the deck. The storm had followed them out of London and had been doggedly tailing the _Reuben James_ ever since, like a primordial omen. Steve shivered and crossed his arms in an effort to dispel the cold, although he had no inclination to go back down to the barracks. He didn't want to be the first one to break the news to the sailors.

"I guess I should head back to the engine room. They might need some help up there for something... I'll make something up." Tony gave him a quick grin and started for the rigging.

Knowing he didn't have an excuse to linger any longer, Steve descended the flight of stairs and glanced around the mess hall, now completely empty, and made his way into the barracks. The usually jovial atmosphere of the crew's quarters was crushed by a chilling silence, broken by the occasional whisper as the sailors clustered around the doorway. An officer stood at the door, announcing the warning Edwards had given to the ranking crew members to the sailors, who absorbed the information in near-perfect quiet.

"These shipping lanes are very dangerous, particularly for the merchant ships we're escorting. Every sailor will be on high alert until we reach Casablanca. You will man your post for the duration of the day, excluding meals and Agent Carter's nightly sessions, which will specialize in artillery and combat scenarios we may face in these upcoming days. The LC remarks that you are shaping up to be fine sailors, and he has full confidence in your abilities. That is all."

Over one hundred hands saluted as the officer turned and marched back to the bridge, leaving Steve in the doorway with all eyes trained on him.

"Give it to us straight, Rogers, will ya? Trim off the official garbage," a voice called from the back of the pack, and Steve shoved his hands in his pockets with a sigh.

"It looks bad, gentlemen. We'll be entering an area where U-boats are known to patrol. On the upside, there hasn't been a ship sunk in this area yet. The deadly attacks were congregated around Iceland."

A few relieved sighs sounded from the crowd, but many still remained attentive with their eyes trained on Steve. "What's this about gunning practice, sir? I'm a radioman!"

Similar complaints rose to a deafening racket, but Steve quieted the sailors with a wave of his hand. "We're all being given extra training on how to operate the offensive capabilities of the _Reuben James_. I can't offer you much more than that."

Their interrogation through, the sailors stood and wandered off to their bunks to catch a few hours of sleep before rapidly-approaching morning. Steve found his paper as he left it, slightly crumpled as it hung off the side of his bunk. The lights of the crew's quarters snapped off with a click, signaling a much-delayed lights-off, and he pushed the newspaper under his bunk to read another day.

It had only taken a day, and suddenly the _Reuben James_ didn't seem like the safe haven he had expected it to be. How quickly things could change in an afternoon!

 _Thanks for your continued feedback! What do you think so far? :)_


	15. Treason

_"Today we are crushed by the sheer weight of the mechanized forces hurled against us,_

 _but we can still look to the future in which_

 _even greater mechanized forces will bring us victory._

 _Therein lies the destiny of the world."_

 _\- Charles de Gaulle_

* * *

 _Casablanca, Morocco; October 15, 1941_

The refugee train to through Europe terminated in Casablanca. From Paris to Marseilles to the shores of Morocco, the downtrodden masses filled the city until it couldn't hold any more, spilling over the sides in a tide of hopelessness and despair that threatened to choke out the life of the city. Portugal promised freedom, but visas were as rare as diamonds to the godforsaken hordes, and so godforsaken hordes they remained, cluttering the already cluttered city until it was full to bursting. Real pleasant.

People in the city were equally interesting: Nazis and the ones who were running from them, crooks and resistance fighters, the odds and ends of Europe tossed together in one large melting pot. A melting pot that reeked, Tony might add.

The streets of Casablanca were nothing like those of London or even New York. Narrow alleyways that could hardly fit Tony's shoulders ended abruptly, draped with the still-wet laundry of a Moroccan housewife, and the cobbled streets looked like they hadn't been paved since the fifth century. The broader lanes were packed with masses of sweating merchants balancing their wares on their heads, rickety stalls boasting pungent spices, and irked soldiers from every country imaginable.

There were more than a few Germans in the mix, failing miserably to look incognito – since the Reuben James had struck a deal with the Vichy government and was docking far from the main port, Hitler's men wouldn't be tipped off for their arrival. It had taken the sailors two full days to paint over the ship's identifying numbers, and the barracks had reeked afterward.

Clint and the sailors were under strict orders to remain on the ship, but shore leave was granted to officers with a laundry list of regulations. Dress in civilian clothes at all times, leave anything befitting their duties on the ship, follow elaborate plans to report back to the Reuben James without alerting anyone of their true intentions... Most of the sailors had elected to sit around the deck and play cards for the duration of the docking, but Tony had donned a suit and tie and fled the ship as quickly as he could.

As he put on a pair of wide-framed sunglasses, Tony wondered if his decision had been too rash. Trying to find a pay phone in the damned town had been as colossal an effort as getting Steve to drink, or smoke, or do anything remotely entertaining. Neither had come to fruition yet, and Tony was tiring of the humid heat pressing down on his shoulders and the constant jostling of sharp-elbowed citizens.

An English cafe beckoned to him from the side of the street, and he dodged the wide bumper of a dusty truck to reach the sidewalk. The blaring car horn followed him through the doors and into the marginal cool of the shade. The cafe's drab exterior matched its mood perfectly: a few dreary-looking Englishmen sipped watery tea and flipped through the Times, flies buzzed about the flickering lightbulbs, and the whitewashed walls had aged to a sickly yellow. Every newspaper Tony spied had the grainy images of Steve shooting down German planes plastered across their pages, a sort of running mystery. A dark-skinned waitress looked up from toweling off a greasy table and cast him a bored look.

"Can I 'elp you?" she asked in broken English, tossing the towel over her shoulder.

"Yeah, do you have a phone?" Tony smiled and tilted his hat in her direction. The fine silk suit he had picked up in London (on Howard's tab, of course) was distinctly out of place in the town of Casablanca, and the waitress didn't seem impressed. She huffed and pointed to a sheltered corner, where the blue emblem of a telephone was painted in rough strokes on the wall.

Tony thanked her and hurried to the phone, fishing through his pocket for change and Dasch's most recent contact number. His fingers brushed against the parcel in his suit pocket and he rolled his shoulders back, feeling the lighter weight of the package pull on the fabric of his jacket. Being apart from any of his designs was torture, and sending them off in London without being detected was trouble enough. _Dasch had better have good things to say this time around._

Taking in a short breath, Tony punched in the numbers Dasch had relayed to him and cradled the handle of the phone on his shoulder. The line connected on the first ring.

"Dasch."

"This is Tony Stark. You wanted me to call you at this time?"

"I wanted you to call me thirty-seven minutes ago. Tell me, is the _U.S.S. Reuben James_ lacking timepieces? Or are you adjusting to a time change in Casablanca?"

Tony closed his eyes, forcing his emotions back as he gripped the parcel in his suit jacket. Dasch was always one step ahead of him, of course. Just like another Howard. "Sorry, traffic was a nightmare. Are we to proceed?"

"Yes. I have shown your plans to members of _Uranverein_ and Gestapo, and both expressed interest."

"They did? That's great!" Tony let out a sigh of relief, but Dasch's clipped tone muffled any elation he was feeling at the moment.

"Not so fast, my friend. This is a mutual agreement, is it not? And I need some information from you before we are to proceed."

Tony scowled and pressed his palm against the wall, wishing for nothing more than to sock the sleazy German across the jaw. What sort of bargain was this? He sent his designs to the Germans, knowing full well they could simply copy them and put his machines into action, and now Dasch was demanding more from him? "Fine. What do you want?"

"The German High Command is planning a mission that will deliver a handful of troops on American soil. We need to know where an optimum location for our landing site is."

Howard's words thundered in Tony's head. _Treason._ "Why do you need to get to the States? What are you going to do?"

Tony could hear Dasch's sneer from the other side of the line. "That I cannot tell you on a public line. I am tired of these questions. Where can we land without being spotted?"

Panic crawled up Tony's throat as a thousand thoughts darted through his mind. "I-I don't know! I'd need at least a day to collect data, tap into some signals and get maps to plan out the landing site. You can't just ask me where to land on a whim!"

"Are you not the boy who can find out any military secret with a radio? Or was that another one of your lies? I will ask you one more time, or I will ask you no longer. _Where can we land?"_

Tony pounded his fist against the wall of the cafe, earning a few strange looks from the customers behind him. "Okay, look, just give me a minute. Let me think about things for a second. Just a minute, okay?"

"Your designs were indeed promising. Our top scientists were impressed. Do you really wish for all of your work to be for naught? To have these remarkable plans rotting in some government cellar?"

Blood pounded in Tony's ears, electricity crackling up his spine as Dasch drawled in his ear. His worst fear was laid bare before the Nazi man, who knew precisely how to press his buttons. Tony was being played, and he knew it. But he could not – _would not –_ let his work go to waste. Dasch had just confirmed his designs were worth something, which was more than anyone in the States had ever done. This was his chance, and there was no way in hell he was going to lose it.

"Long Island!" Tony blurted out, dragging a hand through his hair until his scalp stung. "Land on Long Island!"

Dasch paused for a moment, a crack in his impassive facade. "Landing on the coast of one of the largest and most heavily guarded cities in the United States? How wise is that?"

"I've sailed and flown over Long Island more times than I can count. There's nothing on this stretch of beach for miles, and there's a railroad station for you to catch a ride anywhere you need to go. There's an airport and ferries into the city for you to make a getaway, if you have to. I'd recommend submarine infiltration."

The line buzzed for a moment while Dasch mulled over Tony's proposition. Sweat slicked Tony's palms and his stomach crawled with nerves, the line humming for what seemed like an eternity before the German broke the silence. "I see. And where on Long Island would you recommend, exactly?"

"There's a beach – Amagansett. Eastern part of the island." Tony had taken a trip to Amagansett once, and had crashed Howard's newest prototype for a self-flying plane into the beaches there. He elected not to tell Dasch about his history with the area.

The line hummed again, with Dasch making a thoughtful sound on the end of the line. "Hmm... Interesting. And you're sure there will be no military personnel?"

"They won't be expecting anyone from the sea, certainly not a submarine." Tony was talking so fast his words slurred together. "Look, what about my designs? I expect you'll be paying me for them, of course. I'd like them back as well, if you can bear to part with them. They're my property."

"You'll receive a telegram from the waitress in the cafe. Lovely girl, by the way. Your designs have already been shipped," Dasch's chilling reply buzzed over the line.

"And my money?"

"Wired to your private account. Unless you'd like it sent to your father's..."

Tony slammed the phone into its place with a loud clang, bracing his hands against the walls and groaning softly. Heat pulsed behind his eyes and he clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as he forcibly restrained the urge to kick over a table.

Of course, just when he thought his work was finally appreciated, he was back in this same mess again. People never believed in him until it was beneficial for them to do so, and even then he was swindled. Tony was pretty sure Howard wanted to have a child just for the tax break.

When he turned back to the cafe, the eyes of every customer were trained on him. They quickly turned back to their newspapers and books, their moment of entertainment finished. The waitress, who had been smearing the dirt around the front windows in the impression of cleaning them, poked her head through the door and called, "Telegram for Tony Stank?"

"Stank, huh? That's rich, Dasch," Tony growled, fishing in his pocket for change to pay the fare.

-o0o-

The temperature soared to a stifling heat. Tony felt as though he was breathing through a damp towel, and the crush of people pushed in at him on all sides until he was pinned to his place. The papers from the post office box Dasch had designated in his telegram were tucked safely in his pocket, folded over to disguise their obvious Nazi postmark and _Reichsadler_ from any prying eyes. Dasch had kept his word, but Tony was still fuming from their meeting.

"Papers, papers! Mystery man shoots down Nazi planes over London!"

"A true hero for the face of Allied resistance!"

"Could this be a turning point in the war? Get your papers here!"

Newspapers in every language were propped on the sidewalks, with hawking newsboys flailing them around like flags. Flowing Arabic, chunky Cyrillic and good ol' Times New Roman stared back at Tony, each one showing Steve's feat of heroism back in England. Tony couldn't help but scoff at them. A turning point in the war? Tony was actually doing something for the war effort, and all Steve did was shoot down a few planes.

As much as Steve, Howard, and seemingly everyone else in the world seemed to think, Tony could actually change something. And he was.

The drone of an airplane motor hummed over the sky, dappling the streets with a spot of shade for a moment before it flew away. The thought of Tony's work up in the sky... Then everyone would be paying attention. They would go back on what they said in an instant, begging Tony for his help, and he would give them a taste of their own medicine.

The thought was enough to put a spring in his step as he forced his way through the crowds, muttering apologies as he elbowed past plump Moroccan merchants and skinny French soldiers to the less congested side roads. As soon as he stepped away from the main throng and into the shade of the side alleys the crushing head diminished.

The trip back to the Reuben James was winding and long, but Tony allowed himself to dawdle as he wandered through the city streets. The bustle of the main roads was muffled by the quiet alleys, where time seemed to hang suspended in a lazy manner. An amber sunrise glanced off of the thatched rooftops, painting the whitewashed buildings in varying shades of gold. Tony peeled off his suit jacket and hung it over his shoulder, ambling past the wafting smells of African cuisine drifting from apartments and the impromptu games of children as they raced barefoot through the streets. For just a moment, Tony could imagine there wasn't a war going on. It was a rather boring moment.

Ships loomed above the tops of buildings as Tony approached the port, and the Reuben James blended in surprisingly well with the other craft in various stages of disrepair. A mottled paint job and limited activity on deck drew little suspicion, that Tony could give Edwards credit for.

 _But Dasch knows you're here,_ he thought to himself. _Not so safe after all._

Even in the shadow of American might, guns bristling from the Reuben James' gundeck and a crew of sailors waiting for the signal to attack, Tony knew he wasn't safe.

Nowhere was.

 _Reichsadler - "Imperial Eagle," the symbol of Nazi Germany_

 _Vichy - New capital of the nominally free southern region of France not occupied by Germany. Also references the weak government that characterized by the pseudo-occupation._


	16. And Then There Were Two

_"Germany led the civilized world of physics in every aspect,_

 _at the time the war set in... It was a very frightening time."_

 _-Manhattan Project physicist Leona Marshall Libby_

* * *

 _Casablanca, Morocco; October 15, 1941_

Steve's impromptu going-away party, which had been thrown together in a frenzy by Clint's band of sailors, was already in full swing when Tony came back to the ship. Toilet paper that doubled as streamers had been cast around an empty storeroom. Clint had managed to arm-twist the mess attendant to fork over a few chocolate bars, and Sabin had somehow smuggled an entire record player from the ship's chapel to play some tunes while they ate. The mood was cheerful to the tones of Dinah Shore and off-key attempts at "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." Steve's face was frozen in a smile as the sailors pow-wowed on the floor for a round of drinks.

The party had been a total surprise, and it warmed Steve's heart to think that the sailors had gone out of their way to celebrate. They insisted it was their way of giving back to him. An empty storage hold had shed its spartan appearance in favor of homespun decorations and limited refreshments, but Steve couldn't ask for more. The sailors had teamed up to regale him with their tales from boot camp, which had made for an entertaining evening.

"So I told him," Clint began, taking a swig of a flask Owen had passed to him, "Look, sir, it doesn't matter which model of plane is flying at you at the moment, you just goddamn shoot! And _that,_ my friends, is how I pissed off a petty officer who made my boot camp a personal hell."

"Our boot camp was short. They made sure we could all swim, gave us some training on the guns, and sent us on our way in a few weeks," Farley added, passing the silver flask on to Sabin."I've been meaning to ask you, kid, how's it that you managed to get past enlistment? Underage as you are, of course."

"I've been meaning to ask you, kid, how's it that you managed to get past enlistment? Underage as you are, of course."

Farley flushed a brilliant red and looked to Clint, who shrugged in response. "I didn't tell 'em."

"How old are you anyway, Far? C'mon, you can tell us." The circle tightened as the sailors leaned in conspiratorially. Farley ducked his head, embarrassed by all the attention.

"If you gotta know, I'm fifteen," he admitted sheepishly, and Sabin howled with laughter.

"You've got guts, son! When I was fifteen all I cared about were girls and cars, not the Navy!" Sabin reached across the circle and ruffled Farley's hair with his knuckles.

Farley reached down and pulled off one of his boots, smiling at the group as he rapped his fist against the plastic sole. A scrap of paper fluttered to the ground and Farley snatched it up, holding it in the light for the sailors to see. Steve could make out the number _18_ written in thin pen on the well-worn paper.

"When I went to enlist, I stuck this piece of paper in my shoe. I got up to talk to the man at the desk, and he asked me if I was over eighteen, so I told him I was."

"Over eighteen!" Owen fell backward cackling on the ground, and the circle dissolved into laughter as Farley grinned at them. "Well, he's not wrong, is he?"

"So I wasn't technically lying!" Farley protested, pulling his shoe back on with the slip of paper inside.

"I'm going to miss you, Farley, and the rest of you as well," Steve admitted, and Tony frowned with confusion across the circle.

"What's going on here? Did I miss something?"

Steve turned to Tony and nodded, ready to tell him the reason for their impromptu party before Sabin butted in. "So the English chick wanders right into our barracks during free time, interrupting a nice game of acey-deucey, and asks for Stevie here. He follows her out, love-struck all the while, and he's not back for a while. When he gets back he's crimson red and tells us he's getting transferred off the _Reuben James_!"

"To set the record straight, I was certainly not love-struck." Steve defended himself, but Clint shook his head knowingly.

"Don't try to hide it, Steve. All that private time during officers' meetings... Anything could happen y'know?"

"You're impossible."

"So naturally, the next step was to throw a going-away party! I decorated." Farley grinned, and Steve saw Tony cast a critical eye over the decorations.

"I can tell," Tony replied, lifting a roll of toilet paper with his finger, and Farley ducked his head to scrutinize his shoes.

Clint's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he stood and thrust his half-eaten chocolate bar in the air. "I propose a toast to Steven... What's your middle name, Steve?"

"You're gonna toast the guy and you don't know his middle name?" Owen snickered, and Clint aimed a kick at Owen's head.

"To Steven Rogers, the best goddamn unofficial Navy PE teacher that ever walked the face of the earth. You saved some folks in London, whipped us into shape, _and_ you get the girl. Cheers!"

Slightly embarrassed, Steve tapped the wrapper of his chocolate bar against Owen's like a wine glass, tearing open the paper to reveal the candy inside. It had been so long since he had had chocolate the cheap sugary bar seemed like a delicacy. There was a moment of silence while everyone inhaled their chocolate bars, then the room dissolved back into boisterous chatter.

"Go on, Steve, tell us why you're getting transferred," Farley begged.

"Sure, this is how it _really_ went. Agent Carter brought me up to the bridge because Lieutenant Commander Edwards had received a telegram concerning my position on the ship. They asked me if I wanted to serve my country, and I said I did, so they told me I had been reassigned back to the States. I'm flying from Casablanca tonight."

"They can't do that to you!" Farley pouted, crumpling his chocolate wrapper beneath his toe. "You shouldn't have to leave us here. It's not fair!"

"He is in the Army, after all. I reckon they can do pretty much anything to a fella if they want to," Owen added sagely, tipping his head back to take another swig from the flask. Clint snatched it from him before he could, pocketing the container in one swift sleight of hand. Steve was glad he did so – even for a going-away party, he didn't want things to get too out of hand.

Standing and straightening his collar like a proper gentleman, Clint grabbed Tony's jacket from the far corner and swept it over his shoulders. He cleared his throat in a dignified manner and pulled down on the suit's sleeves, wrinkling his nose in what Steve guessed his impression of an aristocrat. "C'mon, guess who I am!"

"Oh!" Farley's hand shot in the air. "You're Agent Carter."

"A good guess, but _nyet._ " Clint shook his head, taking a long step forward and drawing his hands up like a conductor. "I enjoy women, new cars, expensive alcoholic beverages, women, being better than everyone else, showing off my technical expertise, women..."

"I think you forgot about the women part!" Sabin hollered, and Tony rolled his eyes.

"Real funny, Barton. Can I have that back?"

Turning on his heel, Clint mimed taking a sip from the flask. "How do we say it in France? _C'est magnifique!_ "

Steve glanced to the side and noticed Tony had gone very pale; he stared intently at the jacket with clenched teeth and white-knuckled fists. Clint and the sailors seemed oblivious to his change of mood. Emboldened by drink and the cheery atmosphere of the room, they continued with their charades.

"Okay, here's a new one." Clint drew his brows in a pondering expression, then spun on his heel to the rhythm of the record. "If you're slow on your feet in combat you're as good as knackered! Nevermind how much your comrade screams, just slap a bandage on his arse and move on... God save the Queen!"

"Now _that's_ our very own Queen Victoria! Steve's spent so much personal time with her, though, I bet he could give a better impression." Sabin waggled his eyebrows at Steve.

Tony shot to his feet and stormed over to Clint, reaching forward to tear his jacket from the seaman's shoulders. Clint dodged underneath his lazy swipe, much faster and stronger than Tony could hope to be, and patted something in the breast pocket of the suit. "What's this, then? Have you been holding out on us, Stark?"

"I said give that back!" Tony shouted, but his cries were drowned out by the hooting and hollering that filled the storeroom.

"Go on, then! Are they love letters?"

"Liza's gonna be jealous!"

"Read us a bit, Barton!"

Lurching forward, Tony made another desperate grab for his jacket, but Clint held him away at arm's length while he fished a packet of paper from the inner pocket. Steve leaned forward to see what the parcel was – most of the papers were bound in twine and manila paper, but a few loose sheets stood out from the bundle. Clint seized these eagerly and began to read with a grin on his face, ignorant of Tony's furious expression, and began to read in a booming voice for all to hear.

" _Dear Mr. Stark, we have received your inquiry and have corresponded to express interest in your creations for the flourishing of Germany's Thousand-Year Reich. As correspondent for scientific claims, I speak for the_ Uranverein _science team when I say your mechanical mastery has brought great joy to the heart of the German state. Our focus on nuclear physics will be greatly aided by your contributions..._ "

The record squealed to a halt on the record player, spinning soundlessly as the final strains of swing jolted off track. Clint looked up from the paper, eyes flickering from face to face and back at the lines again. Steve could see clearly the top of the stationery on which the letter had been penned. The eagle of the Reich was emblazoned in black ink on the top corner of the creamy sheet.

There could be no mistaking the intention of the letter. Realization sunk into the room in a clammy pallor, and paper crinkled between Clint's fingers as he balled them into fists.

"You _traitor!_ " he roared, lunging for Tony and landing a punch across the jaw before Steve leaped to his feet and dragged him back. He fought against Steve's restraining hold, twisting and tugging to release his arms as the other sailors got to their feet. Dragging his own arms back, Steve shuffled back a few steps as Tony wiped a smear of blood from his lips. His hands raised into the air in the gesture of surrender, and Tony took a slow step away from the group into the corner of the room.

"Lemme go, Rogers, I swear to God I'll kill the bastard myself," Clint growled, and Steve pushed him aside.

"You're drunk, Barton. Stay out of this." Steve replied in a placating tone. The seaman huffed and crossed his arms, eyes smoldering as stared at Tony's trembling frame, but he made no effort to attack again. Turning away from him, Steve turned his focus to Tony. He stood with shoulders slightly hunched like a wounded dog, eyes flickering from face to face and to the distant door.

"That's right, Rogers, call off your pack dogs. It's what you do best, isn't it?" Tony called back through panting breaths, flexing his jaw. A mottled bruise had already begun to form where Clint had struck him. The sailors bristled behind Steve, but he cast them a look and a small gesture with his hand. _Stand down._

"Tony, I wouldn't recommend insulting people in your situation. Can you explain the letter?"

Eyes widening, Tony raised his hands again. "Look, it's not what it looks like, okay? My dad and I were doing some correspondence with German scientists before the war started – boring stuff about atoms and the like. I never got into it, but now the Reich wants us to help them out! They think we're in cahoots with those dirty Nazis because we were doing some research beforehand! That's all this is!"

Steve balanced this claim with what Clint had read. Tony was a smart guy, and Steve didn't doubt he would spin up any yarn to save his own skin. His eyes fell on the packaged parcel on the ground, dropped and left unopened during the scuffle. He wanted to believe Tony, he really did, but he had to consider all of his options before jumping to conclusions.

"Assuming what you've said is true, then you won't mind us looking in here?" Stepping forward and reaching down to the floor, Steve raised the parcel. Tony visibly paled but nodded, reaching forward instinctually as Steve unwound the twine to open the package.

"Please, be careful with that!" he called as Steve peeled away layers of wrinkled paper and plastic to reveal a thick wad of folded papers. Steve unfolded the paper on the top, a series of blueprints for what he could only guess to be some sort of mechanized boot. Every segment was broken into individual parts and labeled with painstaking detail in a nearly indecipherable scrawl. Page after page followed, with blueprints ranging from guns to jet engines to electronic bombs that could be programmed with coordinates. One common theme stood out for all of the blueprints: they were all weapons of war.

A heavy silence hung over the storeroom as Steve perused the documents. He handed a few off to the other sailors to see but spent extra time examining the letters included in the bundle. Typed in bold ink against luxurious off-white paper, the letters detailed the exchange between Stark and scientists, government officials, grassroots organizations, and everything in between.

 _"Dear Mr. Stark, your letter has been returned as I cannot operate as a free radical apart from the government..."_

 _"Mr. Stark, we regret to inform you that HYDRA had no interest in your blueprints, regardless of how "bloody incredible" they are..."_

 _"Mr. Stark, your revolutionary concepts promise incredible change and a bright future for the beleaguered souls of the scientific community..."_

"This don't sound like research to me. What do you think, Sab?" Owen raised his eyebrows and lifted the letter he had been reading. Held aloft, the paper bore the resemblance of a white flag snapping in surrender.

"Now, I'm no educated professional, but this looks like the selling of war materials to the enemy," Sabin confirmed.

Farley's head whipped back and forth as he followed the conversation, from Tony to his friends and back again. "Wait a minute. Why would you sell stuff to the Germans? We're fighting _them!_ "

"We're not at war yet, Farley."

"Don't talk to him," Sabin seethed, stepping forward and pushing Farley behind his back, out of harm's way. "You get out of here, you here me? Get off this ship now. Or should you call your Kraut friends to give you a lift to Berlin?"

Tony's gaze locked with Sabin's, a blistering stare that could burn through steel, but neither responded. Planting his feet, Tony shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the crowd, as if daring them to move him from the spot. Steve stepped up and Tony flinched, but he only meant to talk.

"Why did you do it, Tony? Why give your designs to the Germans?"

"They're not just Germans, they're _scientists_. Some people are more than where they're born. We're all people too, aren't we? So what if one of us flies under a different flag? I'm helping accelerate science, and people are recognizing me for what I've accomplished. Or does none of that matter to you?"

"It matters to me when those people fly under a flag that kills innocent people. Hell, they attacked your ship and nearly killed your dad! Does that not matter to _you_?" Clint scowled, and Tony raised his chin, proposing no counterargument. "I'm with Sabin. Get outta here."

Eyes black with rage, Tony snatched his jacket from Clint's hands and tore the parcel out of Steve's grip, storming out of the room without another word. The door slammed behind him as he left, and the vibrations lurched the record player back on track. Smooth trumpets sounded again, tinny against the blood rushing in Steve's ears and the bated breaths of the sailors.

"I never would have pinned him to be a spy or nothin'!" Farley exclaimed, looking near tears as he stared at the door where Tony had exited. "Gee, is it real? Is he really...?"

"Yeah, kid. Really." Clint released a resigned sigh, leaning against the wall and resting his forehead on the steel.

He was gone, Steve knew it. Shock still pumped through his veins, disbelief etched in his mind despite the evidence he had held in his very own hands. The world of spies and war had seemed so far away, and yet...

Tony Stark had entered their lives in a blaze of glory, and had exited with a rather inglorious finale.

 _Uranverein - "Uranium Club," German secret program to develop atomic weaponry begun in 1939._

 _(Happy Fourth of July to my American friends! To my non-American friends, wish you were here. Why not update on the most patriotic day of the year? If you want to, drop in a review and tell me what you think so far!) :)_


	17. Infamy

_"December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy -_

 _the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked_

 _by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan."_

 _\- President Franklin D. Roosevelt_

* * *

 _December 7, 1941; Casablanca, Morocco_

Agent Carter had volunteered herself to escort Steve back to the States. Steve tried in vain to explain to the sailors that she had collected the intelligence reports on the British position in Africa and had to return to military headquarters in Washington, but they seemed too preoccupied that Steve and Carter would be on an airplane together. In hours Steve's wedding and future as a married man had been planned out in excruciating detail.

A large body of sailors had assembled on deck to see him off, far more than Steve had expected. He shook hands until his fingers grew numb, listened to and delivered dozens of farewells, and accepted a few trinkets as going-away presents from the men. By the time he had reached the last of the group he had collected a bullet casing (one man's lucky charm), a rusty Purple Heart, a few spare bills, and many photographs to remember the sailors by.

Instead of going in for a handshake, Farley jumped forward and embraced Steve with a rib-snapping intensity. His head hardly reached Steve's chest. When he pulled away be brushed a few tears from his eyes, laughing in an embarrassed manner and glancing around to make sure his dignity was still preserved.

"Don't tell the guys I cried, will ya? I won't hear the end of it!" He admitted, and Steve shook his head.

"I won't. You'll probably be an officer by the next time I see you!" Steve grinned, and Farley's wide eyes shone. He jumped into a salute, and the rest of the sailors followed suit.

"Keep out of trouble, huh?" Clint pumped his hand vigorously. "Maybe you'll get to fight a Kraut for me. Haven't seen any action in this whole goddamned war!" As Steve started to reach for Sabin's hand, Clint pulled him back and lowered his voice. "You're a good commander, Steve. That's why these guys turned up. We'll miss you around here, so write us scurvy sailors every once in a while, yeah?"

Carter stood to the side throughout the exchange of goodbyes. There was something in her eyes that Steve had never noticed before – a sort of knowingness hung in her gaze, the weight of some hidden truth stooping her shoulders. She didn't speak, but Steve knew from her look that something urgent was drawing them away. He pulled himself away from the sailors and started toward the gangplank, painfully, if he were truly honest. The sailors on the _Reuben James_ had been his family for the last weeks, months, and it would be hard to sever that connection.

"Right, then. Said all your goodbyes, then?" she asked, all business as always.

"Apologies, Agent Carter. Should we be going?"

She turned on her heel and started down the gangplank, leaving Steve to follow after her. Clutching his sea bag in one hand and his assortment of trinkets in the other, he started after her brisk pace. He had made it a few steps before he turned back and waved at the sailors, who shouted after him and waved in response. And although it hurt him to do so, he turned to walk down the gangplank and forced himself not to look back.

That was two months ago, and Steve hadn't seen any of the action he had been promised. Instead he was caught up in a mess of military and bureaucratic machinery that kept him stuck in Casablanca, watching the planes take off and wishing with all of his heart he could be on one of them. The British soldiers didn't know what to do with him, so Steve became an honorary mess officer, developing a particular skill in washing dishes. He returned to the barracks every night smelling of soap and utterly miserable.

Maybe he had been wrong to assume that after Erskine's formula turned him into a weapon of mass destruction that he might be able to use his newfound power for good. Now all the work he did was shining pots and pans. Steve was frustrated to the edge of sanity, but he accepted his role and threw himself into every task. If he was going to be a mess officer, he would be the best mess officer ever seen.

Try as he might, he couldn't stamp the question of _why_ from his mind. Why wasn't he on the front lines and tank battles in Tunisia? Why wasn't he training with the British enlistees to go into battle? Why was he continually forced away from his purpose?

Respite from the cycle of boredom and uselessness finally came when Agent Carter arrived in the middle of officer's mess. Steve was elbow-deep in a massive pot of limp spaghetti, prying the stringy pasta from the sides of the metal container with the end of a soup ladle. He must have looked like a complete fool when she approached, with watery marinara sauce staining his apron and hair wild from the steamy kitchen. One look in Carter's eyes meant she was serious. A heavy determination settled on his shoulders, her mouth drawn in a thin line and eyes flashing.

"Change into your dress uniform, Rogers. We're flying out."

The words were music to Steve's ears, and he had to fight from skipping to the barracks as his heart leaped into his throat. He was leaving, he was going to be doing his part at long last, he would be in service again... Two months as mess officer had given Steve some perspective, along with newfound cooking skills, but it had shown him humility most of all. He was glad to be a mess officer, but Carter's promise of really serving his country was finally coming true. Everything was falling into place.

A nondescript car had pulled up to the battalion HQ, with an equally shabby-looking man standing beside the open door. He took Steve's bag and slung it over his shoulder, tossing his belongings in the trunk and ushering Agent Carter in. They were crammed together in the narrow backseat which reeked of cigar smoke and grease, so close their shoulders touched.

"Forgive the travel arrangements. Our exit has to be... Under the radar," Carter explained, releasing a heavy sigh.

Steve's brows furrowed with confusion. Carter's strange expression when she told him to gather his things, and now this? _Something is wrong_. "Permission to speak, ma'am?"

"Granted."

"It's just that you seem very upset. I was wondering if it has anything to do with me." Steve's gaze dropped to his shoes. If he had done something to upset a British officer, he was certainly in hot water. With a crunch of gravel the car ambled away from the building, too-flat tires loping across the patchy paved roads. Potholes sent Steve and Carter bobbing like corks inside of the carriage.

"It has everything to do with you, Rogers. You haven't done anything personally," she smiled a wan half-smile as Steve's shoulders relaxed. "I'll explain more once we get to the airport."

"Right." Steve wasn't fully satisfied, but he let the conversation drop. The prospect of leaving Casablanca and beginning his life still thrilled him, but it had been tainted by suspicion. _What is going on?_

-o0o-

The autogyro was a standard passenger craft, a low-bellied carriage hanging down near the sandy pavement, with one propeller capping the nose of the machine and another larger one on the top. Slender plane wings extended from the sides of the craft below the doors, balancing the fragile frame. Surrounded by sandbags and other military craft, Steve could almost imagine he was in a war zone. The nearby docks were within earshot, the salty stink of the sea mingling with the trampling of boots as soldiers were ferried into the port. They were British, young and full of enthusiasm as they marched by. The ones coming in marched – the ones leaving hobbled.

Agent Carter exited the car before it had come to a full stop, double-timing up to a man in a rumpled suit and leaping into animated conversation. He glanced left and right, touching her elbow to pull her away from a nearby cluster of soldiers. The man stood slightly stooped, with a bit of a paunch and rapidly thinning hair drifting across his scalp in the humid desert breeze. Agent Carter must have known him well, because she seemed quite comfortable chewing him out in front of military personnel. The man backed away slightly, raising his hands in an attempt to placate her.

Steve chose this opportunity to approach them, and the man's round face sagged with relief as Steve joined the group. Huffing softly, Agent Carter gestured towards him. "Steve Rogers, this is Brendan Bracken. I assume you're familiar with him?"

"Familiar?" Bracken scoffed, but not unkindly. "This man's a legend! All over the _Times_ , you are! I reckon there's not a soul under the Queen's land who hasn't heard your name!"

"Bracken is leader of the Ministry of Information. He's managing the propaganda effort on the home front."

They shook hands, leaving Steve confused as to why he was meeting such an important figure. "Pardon, Mr. Bracken. It's an honor to make your acquaintance, but may I ask why I'm being taken away from the _Reuben James_?"

"A polite one, isn't he?" Bracken smiled at Carter, who nodded with a blank expression. "You see, Mr. Rogers, my occupation is precisely why you're here. We've spoken with the Army, and a colonel's dispatched you into joint MOI and Office of War Information care. Frankly, we want you to be the face of resistance against fascism that cripples Europe and abroad."

The man sounded a little like Colonel Philips, who had surely been the one to shoo Steve off into Bracken's care. "I understand, sir. But what _exactly_ will I be doing?" He imagined what the newsreel might say about him – the super-soldier from America, here to fight for the common man and thrust the Allies into victory. Would they drop him in Berlin with a film crew and have him fight waves of Nazi officers? Or maybe he would invade the Pacific and reclaim American territory with the Navy... The opportunities were endless.

Steve didn't look forward to killing necessarily, but Bracken's proposition was shaking the feeling of uselessness that had clung onto him for so long since he had been transformed into a weapon of mass destruction – if he was honest, the uselessness he had felt since the first time he tried to enlist. Shooting down a few planes meant little compared to the lives being laid down on the front lines. His duty was the same as theirs, and now that he was as capable as any soldier to step up and fight, what was keeping him from it? A feeling of elation rose in his stomach, and he felt a smile spreading across his face.

"Yes, well, given the circumstances..." Bracken cleared his throat and looked down, the mood of the conversation sobering in an instant. "To the plane, then?"

He and Agent Carter ascended the short series of steps into the area of the autogyro for passengers, empty save a few boxes marked with black paint in rough numbers. Seats folded down from the side of the carriage, and the walls of the cabin were so thin Steve thought he could puncture them with his thumbs. He elected not to test this theory as Bracken and Carter seated themselves, whispering together while Steve took a seat across the row.

"He doesn't know?"

"I was going to wait. It'd motivate him."

Steve straightened in his seat, leaning forward toward the man and woman attempting to be surreptitious right in front of his nose. "Agent Carter, I hope you don't mind my asking, but is there something I should know?"

Carter sighed, pulling back her hair with both hands until it stretched at her temples. "Yes, there is. Have you heard any news today?"

"No, I work morning and officer's mess for a full shift. What's going on?" Steve had never seen Agent Carter in any way but perfectly poised. Her facade had cracked in this very moment, stress and shock mounting in her eyes until they shone like black diamonds. There was no doubt about it. Carter was afraid, and that was enough to scare Steve as well.

"At about eight in the morning, Hawaiian time, the Naval base at Pearl Harbor was attacked by two waves of Japanese bombers. Nearly two and a half thousand Americans died and half as many were wounded." Carter's words dropped like stones against Steve's chest, and the world seemed to cartwheel beneath his feet. She continued to speak, but her words droned monotonously in Steve' ears that pounded with his rising heartbeat, the shock overwhelming him in a wave of panic.

The United States had been attacked. Soldier had been killed. And Steve had done nothing to stop it.

In a moment his excursion on the _Reuben James_ disgusted him, his stint in the mess hall even more so. He had done nothing but exercise a minute group of sailors, feed a batch of British soldiers, no real contribution to the war effort. After everything that Erskine and Philips had poured into him, this was what he paid them back with? Apathy? Uselessness? He had been waiting in Casablanca for two months, waiting for his superiors to call him to serve, and they hadn't.

 _I had the power to do something, to stop this, to fight back, and I didn't. What kind of soldier does that make me?_

Steve's heart throbbed against his rib cage, but he took in a deep breath and pushed back the anger that slowly collected at the back of his mind. No, he would keep his calm. He would stay collected. Carter's words leaped back into focus, and he was drawn back to their conversation.

"...asked the colonel to dispatch you, of course. The British have been egging me on about getting you on their propaganda posters, but some folks in War Information had a better idea. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, of course," Steve choked out, and Carter's eyes softened ever so slightly. The facts seemed to drill into Steve's skull like the blade of a saw. T _wo and a half thousand killed. Japanese bombers. Pearl Harbor._ "I guess this means America will join the war, won't it?"

"They had damn well better!" Carter spat, then noticed the sideways look Bracken was giving her and dropped her head.

"What can I do? Please, Agent Carter, let me do something besides sitting around on a ship. I'll go back to the states and work the factories, I'll do anything! Anything!" Steve pleaded, clasping his hands together. No longer would he stand on the sidelines while Americans gave their lives for his uselessness. He would take up a rifle and walk into the heart of Berlin if they ordered him to.

"That's the spirit I like to see," Bracken muttered thoughtfully, pulling out a notebook from his breast pocket and jotting something down, studying Steve's expression all the while.

"I'm not joking sir. I've never been so serious about anything in my life. I enlisted, and I expect to fulfill the duties that go along with that deal. Tell me what to do and I'll do it." His fingers clenched into fists and he rocked on the edge of his seat. Steve meant every word that he said, and his conviction matched those statements. The frustration of failing the sailors at Pearl Harbor – everything seemed to culminate in one grand call for _action_.

Steve knew he was made for a purpose; he was a soldier for a reason other than shooting down the occasional plane and teaching calisthenics. It was about time that purpose was fulfilled. Could Agent Carter understand that?

Apparently she could, because when she raised her head her dark eyes blazed with a fury Steve knew was mirrored in his own. Bracken stole the words from her mouth as he responded with a short chuckle. "Don't you worry, son. You'll get your fair share of contribution to the war effort. Don't you worry..."

As the engine of the autogyro rumbled to life and its propellers whirled to life, Steve could only hope his fair share would be good enough. _Good enough for the Navy boys in coffins tonight,_ he thought as the runway peeled away beneath the rumbling tires of the aircraft, _and for everyone else that has fallen in the war's wake._


	18. Shipwreck

_"Have you heard of a ship called the good_ Reuben James

 _Manned by hard fighting men both of honor and fame?_

 _She flew the Stars and Stripes of the land of the free_

 _But tonight she's in her grave at the bottom of the sea."_

 _\- "Sinking of the Reuben James" by Woodie Guthrie_

* * *

 _Atlantic Shipping Lanes, circa Portugal; December 8, 1941_

Before the _Reuben James_ exited port, Clint knew things were heating up. The crew was assigned to general quarters and then sent to battle stations to "prepare," which was officer-speak for "get ready in case you have to shoot like hell at whatever comes our way." To make matters worse, rumors flew through the ranks that the ship was being positioned between a key ammunition transport ship and known U-boat wolfpack channels, making it a prime target for attack.

Everyone was nervous, and Clint was surely no exception, but at the same time a heady confidence brought a spring in every sailor's step. The crew had fought off one U-boat before. Why didn't they make their record a winning streak against the Krauts?

Casablanca stood hundreds of miles behind the quickened pace of the _Reuben James._ The increased speed was surely straining the engines of the heavily-loaded British cargo ships, but quickness was a necessity in the dangerous waters. Clint could understand the officers' reasoning – who wouldn't want to get out of German waters as fast as they could? Who cared what Tony said about war being declared? U-boats attacking merchant ships was war enough for Clint.

The thought of Tony made his blood boil, but Clint kept his temper in check. He could imagine Steve's disapproving face even though he was probably oceans away by now, getting trained to defuse bombs and blend into enemy populations. A pouty expression wouldn't be enough to keep him from putting Tony's nose in the back of his head when he saw the brat again, though.

The entire ship had briefly mourned the loss of Steve; Clint bet there wasn't a single sailor on board who wasn't sad to see the back of him, which was no small feat. He had been replaced almost immediately, though, with morning calisthenics swapped out for increased training for artillery fire. Clint's post on the anti-aircraft force, with three other sailors manning the 20-millimeter mount on deck beside him, drilled until they could fire without watching their hands perform the motions. Clint served as spotter on the small band, searching the sky for planes and making adjustments to the level and angle of the gun barrels as they aimed. At the end of the day's training, his mount had the highest record for accuracy.

The first true test of action came at 0900 hours, when air defense sounded in the middle of Clint's washing duties. He had thrown down the sweat-stained uniform he was scrubbing with the first peal of air defense, his feet pounding up the stairs to reach the deck. Soldiers swarmed onto the surface in a sea of white, and Clint pushed his way through the crush of bodies to reach his gun. The lead gunner, whose name Clint hadn't learned yet, had strapped himself into the main gun brace, which was padded against his shoulders and followed his motions to hit enemy bogies. Clint was tearing off the canvas cover for the gun when someone tugged on his uniform sleeve.

Farley's grinning face looked down at him, eyes shining with childish excitement – he looked very much his true age at the moment, all smiles and adrenaline. "We're really fighting 'em! Bet you a buck my mount'll shoot down more Krauts than you."

"You're on." Clint spat in his palm and shook the kid's hand. Farley served as lead gunner on the forward deck, with Clint's 20 on the aft. Shooing him away, Clint loaded the first magazine into the gun while the other two sailors ran up and took their places on the sides of the mount.

The trampling of feet pounded against the metal deck, with sailors swarming up the rigging to the gundecks and taking their positions on the main deck. It was a well-executed affair, with everyone in place in minutes, and Clint could tell from the tensed forms of the sailors beside him that they were all ready for action. They had been trained for this endlessly, and they were ready to prove their mettle.

He was glad he was stationed on the deck, because he could see the massive form of the U-boat below circle and rise to the surface with ungodly grace, water tumbling down its flanks as the metal structure surfaced. The ship's conning tower rose first, and Clint was shocked to see the form of a running devil figure painted on the sleek side. _Some sense of humor..._

In one lithe motion, panels along the curved edge of the submarine slid forward and folded back over the top, revealing the oiled barrels of massive guns staring up at the _Reuben James._ At some point the coxswain must have ordered for the larger guns to fire, because the air filled with shells and smoke and the stench of gunpowder that choked Clint's throat. The 20s would be useless against a submarine – unless this submarine from hell had planes to launch – so he could only stare as the U-boat began its barrage of the hull of the airship.

The firefight hadn't lasted but a minute when a shrill whistle filled the air. Clint leaned against the rail and watched as the massive form of a gun barrel cranked upward to angle towards the _Reuben James._ Fire immediately concentrated on the gun with razor-sharp precision, but the German machinery seemed unaffected by the pounding shells. The yawning mouth of the cannon burst into a spark of flame for a moment before sending the sleek body of a tapered torpedo pinwheeling towards the deck.

Clint would never forget the sound of the torpedo drilling through the hull and colliding with the forward magazine. The ship itself seemed to release a scream of pain as the front half of the deck erupted in a fireball, tearing away from the body of the ship with a wrenching of metal. The front half of the ship was there, and then it was gone, metal shrieking and clashing together as it was ground to pieces and tossed into the sea.

All firing ceased, a moment of shock reigned in the still silence. The ash of the burning canvas suspending the zeppelin's helium rained down gently on Clint's shoulders. His body was in motion, tugging dials and levers to aim his gun at the German U-boat below, but his mind was numb. The first scream split the calm as the gentle snowfall of burning Navy might dusted the deck. Flames leaped across the ship, or what was left of it, as German artillery pounded against the side of the _Reuben James_ and forced it back.

Alarms blared in and out of earshot, the chattering on gunfire and crunches of metal as the hull was beaten back. An explosion threw Clint to his knees, the familiar sound of depth charge that had been set off by the raging fires. _This must be what hell is like,_ Clint thought absently as his fingers grew numb adjusting the dials, _fire and death and grinning demons. I'll let some of the Krauts share this experience._

And he did. He didn't think, he just moved, fixing cartridges and concentrating fire towards the best targets he could spot. As expected, the artillery from the 20-millimeter guns was like shooting a spitball at a tank, but Clint knew he was _doing_ something. He was fighting even as the ship tilted to a dramatic angle beneath his feet, even as the screams for medics bled out of focus and the smoke grew too thick to see through. The _Reuben James_ jolted like a dying horse, thrashing and bucking as air-based miniature torpedoes peppered its hull. Air defense whined high and nasally above the din, like its alert could somehow contribute to the firestorm.

Clint had to be wrestled from his post; he was still forcing another cartridge into the gun's magazine when a soldier tore him away and slung a half-inflated life vest over his neck. His lips flapped soundlessly, but the message was clear. The ship was going down. The tilting deck forced soldiers to slide toward the torn half of the ship, the angle growing steeper every second. There would be no rescue. They were going in the water.

Tears streaked the face of the soldier, but Clint remained controlled as he pulled his leg over the side of the railing. He latched his harness into the winch like he had done the night the _Calliope_ sank, like he felt he had done a thousand times, and looked down over the open sea.

The forward half of the _Reuben James_ sat in the churning water, already below the surface of the dark blue waves. A few sailors floundered in the water, desperately trying to swim out of the way of the aft half of the ship careening towards the water. Smoke billowed from the torn half of the ship, forming a column of smoke as thick and dark as concrete that boiled toward the sky. Cables whirred beside him and Clint stumbled forward to catch up with the sailors who had abandoned ship, releasing his hands and leaping toward the open face of the sea. The wind tore at his clothing as he plummeted closer and closer to the water where the U-boat lingered like a fat cat stalking its prey. Light guns folded forward from the ship's smooth flanks, turning not the main body of the _Reuben James_ but the sailors falling from the deck.

Bullets chattered through the air, and Clint looked to his left just in time to see a fellow sailor jerk back on his line, lifeless as he fell. Shouts and screams rose from the falling sailors as comrades were torn apart before their eyes, the wave of German fire tearing through the body of sailors and making their limp bodies dance. Clint drew up his knees as a hail of bullets sailed beneath him, but he miraculously wasn't harmed as he plunged into the water.

The ice-cold water numbed every feeling in his body, wiping his mind blank, but he forced his fingers to clumsily undo his tether and kicked his way to the surface. Clint's life vest had inflated fully by this point, but the brilliantly colored plastic seemed to only make him more of a target in water infested by hostiles. Another barrage of gunfire sounded above his head and he looked up to see the flailing lines of the next round of sailors, many frozen in their harnesses. They looked like they had been hanged, spinning lifelessly above the face of the water as the _Reuben James_ neared the white-tipped waves.

Clint would be crushed if the ship continued its course, so he swiveled his head back and forth to see if there were any other sailors forming up for rescue procedures. He noticed a ring of sailors forming in the distance and he set out with a powerful stroke, kicking life into his numbed limbs as he fought to cross the distance. The shadow of the _Reuben James_ loomed over him as he swam, throwing the water in even colder temperatures, or maybe it was Clint's paralyzed mind playing tricks on him. He refused to look over his shoulder, fixing his eyes on the sailors ahead of him, one paddle after another.

His arms and legs throbbed with pain and cold, but desperation and an inkling of reason pushed him onward. If the ship came down it would create a vacuum of air under the water that would drag him down with it. He had to get away fast if he wanted to avoid death by drowning. It would be a rather embarrassing death, Clint figured, if his picture appeared in the paper of a Navy man dying by drowning. This also spurred him on and he dragged himself forward throughout the water. His clothes felt like they added an extra hundred pounds of weight to his body, and the nearness of the German U-boat made his skin crawl.

The resounding crash of the _Reuben James_ entering the water thrust Clint forward ten feet on a tidal wave, into earshot of the other sailors. Sheets of black water enveloped him, and Clint retched as the ship's leaking oil entered his lungs. The sailors shouted and pointed back over Clint's shoulder, and he looked to see the distant form of the U-boat swarming with activity. Narrowing his eyes, he could make out the forms of soldiers running up to the surface of the German submarine, and it appeared that they were armed.

Clint dove under the water a moment before a bullet cracked over his head – the Krauts were picking off the sailors in the water! His flotation device made him an easy target among the neutral blues and dark hues of the sea. Keeping his head below water, Clint disentangled himself from the life vest and kicked off in the direction of the other sailors, scarcely allowing himself to take in a breath for fear the Krauts would fire at him again.

He raised his head and wiped the oil from his eyes until he could see above the lapping waves, watching as the bridge lifted above the water at a perpendicular angle to the horizon. The structure jutted like a massive mountain, slowly sinking down in the depths under continued, although sporadic, German fire. Blood, oil, and water blended in the chilling winter morning.

Sharp cracks bloomed into explosions that billowed above the surface of the water in enormous plumes as the depth charges went off. Used for destroying submarines, the charges triggered each other and radiated outward in one deadly blast that tore open the hull of the _Reuben James_ and riddled the sailors closest to the ship with shrapnel. Clint closed his eyes against the sight, but he couldn't block out the screams of the sailors as they drifted helpless and wounded in the unrelenting waves.

A hand dragged him into the circle of sailors, and he wrapped his hands around the shoulders of the closest men as he had been drilled to do in boot camp. They didn't joke, didn't jest, didn't even speak about the Germans lingering nearby, picking off their friends like flies. They only hovered above the frigid surface of the Atlantic Ocean, watching as the forms of the first Allied ships responded to the SOS, and waited.

 _If you have time go check out the song "Sinking of the Reuben James" on Youtube... One video had the names of the sailors on board, and you might recognize one or two. Feedback is always appreciated! :)_


	19. Arms for the Love of America

_"I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness,_

 _nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory._

 _I love only that which they defend."_

 _\- J. R. R. Tolkien_

* * *

 _Los Angeles, California; December 22, 1941_

Steve had wanted to serve his country. He would do anything, _anything,_ but not this.

"You have to be kidding me," he muttered as he looked out from behind the curtain to the awaiting audience. They shifted in their seats, watching expectantly and conversing quietly amongst themselves while they waited for the show to begin. "This is a joke, right?"

The disgruntled and balding stage manager, Chuck Walter, crossed his arms and glared at Steve – or what part of Steve that he could see that wasn't bedecked in a woolen star-spangled costume. "Look, kid, you want me to call your commanding officer? 'Cause I'll call your commanding officer. You made a commitment to do this, remember?"

"I made a commitment to fight for my country, not prance around on stage in tights!" Steve hissed, careful to keep his voice below the murmuring of the crowd. "And do I have to keep the shield?"

"If you can tape the script to the barrel of a musket, then be my guest," Chuck scoffed. "Now go! You're on!"

Steve was forced from his position by a harsh shove onto the stage. A thousand lights blinded him as he stumbled forward, holding his shield before him awkwardly and squinting to see the attentive faces staring up at him from behind the wash of white. Martial music began to pump into the auditorium and cheers rose from the audience as the dancing girls filed out with a swish of red, white and blue skirts. Lifting his shield to eye level, Steve skimmed over the notes taped to the inside of the metal disc.

"Not everyone can shoot a gun or drive a tank, but we all can make our own individual contribution to the war effort!" he stammered to the awaiting crowd, who leaned forward in their seats as the girls began a sing-song chorus behind him. Steve swallowed hard and looked down at his notes again; from the corner of his eye he could see Chuck sigh and clap a hand to his forehead.

"Don't you hate the homeless?" Disgruntled whispering spread through the audience and Steve looked back at his cards again. He could swear he heard one of the trumpeters cough into his instrument with surprise. His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly lift the shield. "Um, I mean, don't you hate the homelessness that plagues our streets? Victory bonds will get the young men of America off the streets and bring them to fighting shape to shape our better tomorrow!"

The last line felt ridiculous falling from Steve's tongue, but the audience cheered and stamped their feet as the chorus girl started into a low kick line, beaming dazzling smiles towards the crowd.

"Let's show them the red, white and blue doesn't just fly in the States, but a flag of freedom the world over. From the beaches of Pearl Harbor to the Atlantic Wall, we can make this dream a reality. But we need your help to do so!"

The crowd was so riled they didn't notice Steve was reading from the back of his shield almost constantly. The girls behind him brought their catchy chorus to new heights as they wove in and out of each other in a complicated short step routine, and the trumpets mounted from the tinny sound of the ill-concealed pit symphony. One of the girls, Sharon or Karen or something like that, stepped forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. Was that part of the script? Steve blushed furiously and the crowd went wild, drowning out the music and anything else he might say.

The standing ovation lasted long after Steve had retreated to backstage, where the stage manager looked both incredulous and impressed with his performance. "You did horribly, but they still love you. Hate the homeless, huh?"

"This is great, Chuck, really great. The money's pouring in, and all the girls are clamoring for pictures. You up for it, Captain America?" An eager stagehand grinned up at Steve, hefting one of the donation buckets that rattled with coins.

"Damn right he's up for it, he's under contract! Get out there and hold some babies, will ya?" Chuck tapped his pen against his clipboard, somehow still irritable through the shouted cheers.

Steve glanced down at his ridiculous woolen uniform and tall red boots – he looked more like a comic book hero than a war hero. "Pardon me, sir, but wouldn't it be better if I –"

"Nope! Get out there."

Keeping his comments to himself, Steve followed Chuck's assistant to the back door of the stage, which was on the receiving end of a horrendous pounding. When the assistant opened the door a cluster of girls fell through the opening, giggling and squealing as soon as they saw Steve standing before them. He followed the assistant through the crushing crowd and back into the foyer of the auditorium, where even more people had gathered to meet the super-soldier.

"Golly, mister, you sure are strong!" a young boy called up from Steve's knees, and he shook the kid's hand like he would an adult.

"You are too, son," Steve's head jerked up and he saw the assistant mouthing something from behind a mob of adoring parents, "And you'll grow strong too if you drink your Ovaltine!"

"Aww," the parents gushed as if Steve had said something remarkably profound.

Flashbulbs snapped as reporters danced to and fro, stepping on each other's toes to get the best angle of Steve shaking hands with the people of America. The foyer was soon illuminated in a second sunrise from all of their frantic photography. The chatter mounted to a deafening level, and Steve could hardly shake hands or sign posters as quickly as they were being thrown in his face.

"You're my hero, Captain America!"

"Oh, he's so _handsome,_ isn't he?"

"A real American lad, huh?"

A pretty girl with a short blonde bob sidled up to him and smiled sweetly, and immediately the cameras erupted again. She slipped an arm around his waist in a short hug, then faded away into the crowd as other young girls, now emboldened, came forward for their personal meeting with Steve. It was all very confusing, and the attention was beginning to overwhelm him.

"You're a real ass, Captain! Why don't you get a real soldier to show off, huh?" a derisive catcall rose from the back of the foyer, and heads turned to make out the dissenter. Mutters and frowns swept across the crowd as a ring formed around a young man, a teenager really, who cupped his hands around his mouth to be heard.

"That's right, you faker. You don't give a damn about the guys killed at Pearl Harbor. You just want your money and your fame! Some hero America deserves, eh?"

Steve stood with his shield at his side, silent as the boy was dragged out by his elbows, Chuck and his assistant ferrying the young man out the doors. He dragged his heels and continued to heckle the crowd as he left, kicking and fighting to free himself. "Take me away, but I know the truth! It won't be long before the rest of the world knows it too. Faker! Cheat!"

A collective sigh of relief rose from the crowd when the boy was deposited outside, and Steve was once again assaulted by handshakes and autographs and a significant increase of hugs from girls. Tony and Clint would ridicule him for years if they could see him now!

The rest of the day followed without incident, and Chuck's eternal scowl had lessened somewhat when he tallied up the donations and bonds sold to the members of the crowd that day. The showgirls had headed off to their dressing room to change, but Steve had stayed behind to help ferry the donations and prepare the money for transfer. He knew nothing about bond sales or what constituted a good profit, but there was more money in the storage room that night than he had ever seen in his life, maybe ten lifetimes.

Chuck's assistant, whose name Steve learned was Talbert, evaluated the day's earnings in a highly favorable light. "I've worked the bond business for years, Mr. Rogers, and I'll let you know I've never seen someone criticize the homeless and pull in this much cash. The public loves you! That bit about Pearl Harbor was good – did Chuck put that in the script?"

"I was only being respectful."

"Well, respect pays well and it pays in grade-A bond donations!" Talbert grinned, adjusting his spindly glasses

on the bridge of his nose. "Say, I'm not supposed to show you quite yet, but do you want to see something amazing?"

"I'd be glad to," Steve rose from his chair, setting down the bookkeeping record and following Talbert into an adjacent room under the stage. A golden placard indicated that the room was off-limits and for staff only, but Talbert inserted his key and flicked on a series of bare lightbulbs that illuminated the room in stark detail.

Posters hung from every inch of the wall, some even suspended on easels in a state of half-completion. Desks were littered with toy soldiers, plastic colorless discs, and reams of paper that slid off of one another in disorganized stacks. Strands of ribbon drifted from their pinned positions on mannequins. Fabric hung in bundles on the ground and swung around the legs of tables. There was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the room, but every object shared one trait: they were all related to Captain America.

The fictional character Steve had come to embody grinned down at him (although some scowled, in an effort to look tough, he supposed). Posters showed him rallying in front of clusters of troops, piloting airplanes, or parachuting into enemy territory with tracer fire sparking all around him. The discs, which revealed themselves to be shields, were child-sized playthings. The action figures were bedecked in the standard Captain America gear figured in miniature. Steve lifted a comic book and scrutinized the cover, which showed him socking Adolphh Hitler in the middle of his miniature mustache.

"Why am I punching Adolph Hitler in the face?"

"You'll be punching him on a regular basis once the tour gets under way. Chuck didn't tell you about that?" Talbert observed the room with a beaming pride, nodding his head toward the least flamboyant of the posters. It depicted a schedule of Steve's tour with the USO bond campaign, hopping from state to state in a meander across the country. Steve was about to ask Talbert to elaborate when he shook his head and turned back to the decorations. He would never understand show business.

"You have this down to a science," he noted as he lifted a helmet that was 'Captain America Approved,' complete with a sticker signature.

"We've had the Captain America line planned since the government started talking about the super soldier program. You only furthered things along with your heroics in London. Now that the world's so inflamed about Pearl Harbor, we knew it was the time to strike. There's not a house in America that doesn't know your name."

"How's that?" Steve pulled lightly on a child-sized uniform that matched his own ridiculous costume, down to miniature Tinker Bell boots.

"You've got your own radio show, of course."

"Right. Of course."

Talbert noticed Steve's emerging smile and grinned even wider, arms akimbo as he observed his handiwork with pride. A similar streak of pride rushed through Steve as he excused himself and started back towards the state, boots slapping against the concrete floors. He still felt a little foolish in the costume, though – he would have to ask Talbert about any possible costume changes.

A discarded, day-old newspaper lay crumpled in the hall as it declared the news of Pearl Harbor in a bold, half-page header. _Real sailors, real soldiers. And I'm wearing tights._ The words of the young man in the foyer rang clear in his ears as he surveyed the décor of his future. _Faker. Cheat._ He wasn't wrong, was he?

 _Of course he was wrong,_ Steve asserted to himself as he recalled the posters and toys and vinyl discs. He could hardly believe he was allowed to participate in this sort of thing. After one botched performance, he would make up for every one of his stumbles with a resounding success. He would be the best USO showboy in the country – if that was what the colonel wanted him to do, he would bring in the money. _Never let it be said that Steve Rogers didn't do his part in the war effort._

Steve banished these doubts as quickly as they had come and followed the sounds of marching tunes as Chuck's caustic drawl back to the stage. This was his duty now. He would not fail again.

 _(A cool fact about the quote above - Tolkien was almost enlisted as a codebreaker in WWII! Reviews/critiques/your thoughts are always appreciated!)_


	20. New Roots

_"It is easy to translate a distant sound into the shout of a man_

 _if one is intent and knows that the dark passing waters may hold_

 _a survivor or the still lingering spirits of the recent dead."_

 _\- BB55 war diary_

* * *

 _East Coast Shipping Lanes; January 12, 1942_

Clint liked New York City much better than London, mostly because the people were probably falling over themselves to give him free stuff.

Whenever he wore his new Navy uniforms – the old ones had been ruined in the water or had gone down with the _Reuben James_ – he never had to pay at restaurants, he could ride the subway for free, and movie tickets were thrown his way. His weekend of leave had been rudely interrupted by shore patrol ordering him back to his new ship, the _North Carolina._ Clint didn't know much about the ship, except that she had received some special attention for her massive firepower capabilities, attention that had earned her the nickname 'Showboat.' _Showboat_ was one of the musicals Clint had received free tickets to during leave, so he had a good impression of the ship already before stepping on board.

His first view of the ship revealed a large difference between the _North Carolina_ and the _Reuben James:_ the new ship was absolutely massive. He had never seen something so huge in his entire life. A wall of steel rose from the waterline, arcing gently over his head in the sloping side of the ship. She wore a plain gray measure, but the simple paint job did little to detract from her sturdy figure and firepower bristling from her upper levels. If Clint leaned his neck back far enough, he could make out the slender forms of the 20-millimeter deck guns, where he guessed he would be stationed again.

A security guard approached Clint, a firearm slung across his back and a similarly threatening expression on his face. "Can I help you here, son?"

"Yessir, I've just been reassigned to this ship. She's a real beauty, isn't she?"

The guard's expression softened immediately, but Clint didn't blame him for his earlier hostility. The country had just been attacked. Who wouldn't be on edge? "Sure is. I've seen ships come and go, but this one is special. Where were you stationed previously? I've got a brother in the Navy."

"The _Reuben James._ She went down over the Atlantic," Clint nodded, and the guard's eyes dropped to his polished shoes.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, son."

"'S okay, sir. Mind pointing me in the right direction to get on this monster?"

-o0o-

Compared to the relatively small size of the _Reuben James_ , the _North Carolina_ felt like stepping out of rural Kansas and taking a stroll into the heart of New York City. An ensign spotted Clint wandering around the ship and started berating him before he learned Clint was a veteran of the Battle of the Atlantic, choosing to repay the debt by showing Clint around the ship.

"The Showboat's divided into twenty-one divisions. Think of them like neighborhoods. You'll get to know the boys in your division, but you won't interact with the rest of the crew all that often. We'll have over two thousand boys on board, how could you?" Ensign Weyrauch began, striding in long steps across the teak-wood deck. Clint had learned minutes beforehand that the wood was there to absorb shrapnel in case of enemy attacks. "Enlisted men bunk below the water line, officers in the superstructure. Have you found out your division yet?"

"No, sir, I haven't," Clint replied, careful to be on his best behavior in the company of an officer. Despite his off-putting introduction, Weyrauch seemed like a fine fellow altogether.

"You'll be assigned it soon, I suppose," the ensign looked at Clint sideways as they neared the side of the deck looking over the harbor. "It's true what you said, isn't it? About the _Reuben James_?"

"Of course, sir." Confused, Clint turned to the apologetic ensign.

"If may sound brash for me to say so. It's only that I didn't see anything in the papers about it. All the news was about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor."

Anger spiked in Clint's veins, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. Weyrauch's words were true. Clint had been scouring the papers for days and had blown an ungodly amount of change on every issue, but the most he had been able to find about the _Reuben James'_ wreck was a small mention on the fifth page of a local newspaper, and the majority of the column was commenting on a local sailor who had died. The name and face were familiar.

Ensign Weyrauch was right about something else, too: Clint wouldn't be able to get to know all of the men on the _North Carolina_. But he had known all of the men on the _Reuben James_ , in one way or another. He had known all one hundred men who had been torn to shreds by Nazi artillery, drowned in the frigid Atlantic, or been picked off by sniper fire. Forty-four men emerged from the icy seas alive.

"Yeah. Typical, isn't it?"

Weyrauch's gaze leaped to his shoes at Clint's bitter statement. Why shouldn't he be embarrassed? The ensign hadn't seen combat yet – he had graduated the rigorous physical tests to earn rank, but what was that in the face of a real veteran? Clint probably didn't look much like a veteran as it was, though. He was only a Seaman, First Class, low on the Navy rankings. He was not impressively tall, nor did his presence command attention. If Weyrauch looked at him in passing, he would assume he was just another sailor.

Clint knew he shouldn't be rude to an officer, so he turned to the conversation to more pleasant things about the _North Carolina_ and her duties in the seas. Relief poured from the ensign as he chatted amiably about the future missions of the Showboat, a topic on which he was thankfully well-informed.

"She'll be taking us out into the Pacific again, but if the word of the officers is anything to be believed, we'll be steaming for the Panama Canal before the month's out. Hope you packed your swimming trunks," Weyrauch joked.

"Thanks, but I've done enough swimming for a lifetime," Clint replied, watching as the ensign's smile crumpled. "Only joking, sir."

The ensign led Clint down belowdecks, where he was instructed to follow the swarm of new recruits to the mess hall. A low buzz of chatter filled the cramped hallways as the boys stumbled over the tall doorways. A stream of curses ensued and many of the seamen emerged with bruised shins. Clint noticed that all of the boys in the crowd were apprentice seamen – he was the only one of them that held a higher rank.

When Clint arrived and formed lines with the men next to him, roll call had already begun. Thankfully there weren't too many new men aboard, and Clint didn't have to wait for eons to get his assignment. As the names were listed from the roll, he couldn't help but listen for any of the sailors from the _Reuben James_ crew. None came.

"Barton," a stiff-looking officer approached him in line, "Make your first choice."

"Gunner's mate, sir," Clint replied. Maybe on the _North Carolina_ the 20s would actually get some use, unlike they had on his previous assignment. It would be nice to fire on Japanese planes and not impenetrable German steel, and probably a hell of a lot more rewarding.

"Second?"

Clint hadn't planned on this. He scrambled for an answer, recalling what the sailors before him had said. "Radioman, sir."

"And your third?"

"Photographer, sir." As soon as he said the words he prayed with all his heart he wouldn't be made a photographer. If he was stuck taking photos while enemy planes were firing on the ship, he would hurl himself over the side. _God, anything but photographer!_

The officer nodded with a brief snap of his neck, walking past Clint and continuing his poll of the other sailors. The men beside him got to whispering about their assignments, their boyish faces shining with excitement.

"I heard from my brother that you never get your first choice. He wound up as quartermaster when he wanted to be a gunner! He didn't even ask for that, you know."

"As long as I don't end up a radioman, I'll survive. They weed the bad ones out and transfer you to the jobs for guys who can't do anything right. Real embarrassing."

None of this was very encouraging, and Clint found himself ruing the moment when the officer strode back. He rolled out his list of assignments in a dignified air, reading down his long nose.

"Barton, you have been assigned as a gunner." The officer rattled off sleeping quarters and other formalities, but Clint was nearly too excited to hear them. He was so glad he wasn't a photographer he could hardly contain his excitement – although he supposed that photographers weren't often casualties of war, while gunners made for good targets. He could hardly be bothered with that trifle at the moment, though.

After all of the new recruits had been assigned their duties, they grouped up in clusters to head to their new sleeping chambers. Clint noticed that there were a few Marines in the mix, and since the Showboat was rapidly filling it capacity with eager sailors, he and the other gunners would bunk in the Marine barracks. His lucky stars had really come through, because he would still be manning the 20s on the ship's deck.

The usual banter ensued as the sailors started up friendly chatter, and Clint was soon on his way to the Marine barracks with his newfound acquaintances. One thing was for sure: the _North Carolina_ was not the _Reuben James_. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, Clint preferred the change.

-o0o-

 _V-Mail: Jan. 20, '42_

Dear Steve,

It feels very strange to be writing the man who adorns every newspaper, comic book and poster across the States – the boys on the Showboat can hardly believe me when I say that I know you. A quick response from you, besides being the proper thing every good and proper friend should do to a soldier's letter (only joking), would prove to them I'm right.

The men on the _North Carolina_ are very kind and welcoming, even though I came in a with a group of new sailors, but we get new boys on every day. We're steaming through the Atlantic now, on our way to New York. The Navy makes quite the globetrotter out of you, yeah?

The _North Carolina_ is quite a lot bigger than the _Reuben James_ was, with over two thousand sailors aboard! Far too many to get to know over the trip, but I'll try my damnedest. They have me holed up with some Marines who man the 20s at the time, who are good men but cheat horribly at cards. There's a laundry room, which I've become fully acquainted with and am making a pretty penny from (your very own Seaman Barton is quite the washerwoman - a buck per uniform, I make more than the officers do), a barbershop, and even an ice-cream parlor. We eat like kings! Adding to the fact that we haven't seen a lick of combat in days, I'm in heaven.

The only thing worse about this ship than the previous one is the work. We're drilled endlessly, day and night, until I can load and aim the 20s in my sleep. I dream of those rotten guns, Steve. I suppose it's for a good cause, seeing as my mount is getting more and more accurate every day, and from what I've heard about the Japanese air force, maybe the deck guns will be of use for once. I'll be the first to jump up at the air defense signal – I look forward to it.

How are things back in the States? Have they gotten you off the campaign trail yet? Every time I see a picture of you you're shaking hands with another senator. The boys desperately miss news from home, but we're close enough to still get American radio. Heard your voice on that plenty a time, too.

If you could do me another favor I'd be forever in your debt. News is hard enough to get when you're sailing, and I haven't been able to scrounge up anything about the _Reuben James_ in the papers. Do you think you can call up some of your connections in the Navy (which I'm sure you have now, Captain America) and ask them about the crew? Owen and Farley never seem to leave my mind. It would give your friend a bit of closure if I could find if they're dead or reassigned like I've been.

If you'd like to hear some good news from my end, Sabin sent me a telegram the other day! Well, he actually sent a telegram to the radio crew, who had to start a massive manhunt through every division on the ship to find me. He's stationed on the _Wasp,_ one of the other ships in our escort group. Hopefully I'll meet up with him during some upcoming shore leave, but he reports that he's alive and kicking. Knowing someone else made it from those waters alive is more of a relief than I can say – well, write.

It may seem like blasphemy, Steve, but I can't help but wonder about Tony. We both saw the letters he had in his pocket that night. He obviously has connections in Germany, probably with the Kraut government. Days after he storms off in a huff when we find out he's in cahoots with the Nazis my ship sinks, most likely taking my friends down with it. Do you think he could have called in the attack? He spent time with you in the officer's meetings and got to know the engine room pretty well. I'll bet he gleaned our capacity for speed and our next locations from those meetings. All of the evidence seems to point to the slimy bastard.

But on to better topics. Life moves on, I suppose, and more daring adventures lie ahead. There are some upsides to life as a veteran of the seas. All the new recruits, and even those ranked above me, treat veterans with a hefty measure of respect. I don't like to think I've earned it. The men still lying in the seas are the real heroes.

What a way to end a letter on such a dismal note. You'll be pleased to hear that I am wiping the floor with the Marines at acey-deucy. Because you were always so terrible at it, you will be equally pleased to hear that even you could beat these soldiers. They may be in peak physical form, but they can't even master a board game. No tactical geniuses in this bunch, but I've seen them in fighting action and I don't envy the Japanese on the business ends of our guns.

Signing off from the chapel, all very cheery with the tunes of Bach and Beethoven,

Clint Barton

 _Measure - A ship's "paint job"_

 _20th chapter! What are your thoughts so far? :)_


	21. Confidential

_"If you want to succeed in the world,_

 _you don't have to be_ _much cleverer than other people._

 _You just have to be one day earlier."_

 _\- Leo Szilard_

* * *

Dear Seaman Barton,

I am glad you are in high spirits on the _North Carolina_ , which seems as nice a ship as any from the papers I've read. I am envious of your freedom and practically everything about your situation, as it is the polar opposite of mine at the moment.

As glamorous as life seems in the world of Captain America, it's beginning to wear on me. At the same time, it's a good sort of wear, a tiredness from doing a worthy work. I'm paraded around the country and sing a little ditty to bring in money for the Army. There are worse situations to be in. Talbert even had the ingenious idea to throw Adolph Hitler in the mix, so now I get to punch the German Fuhrer every time a show comes on. It gives the kids a laugh, and now I can proclaim to new acquaintances that I've punched Hitler in the face. Try telling that to your new Navy friends!

For a kid that had never been out of New York, this trip has brought me around the States at a breakneck speed. I've flown from coast to coast, driven through the Midwestern plains with a bus full of showgirls behind me and two tons of Captain America merchandise lashed to the van above me, and I feel as if I've seen every nook and cranny America has to offer. I've performed on top of an overturned bucket in Nebraska (that was a concert to remember) and in the largest performance halls the U.S. Of A has to offer, punching Hitler all the while. An exhilarating experience!

One tires of the same old script after a while, and I have to wonder if it's really true. I've been told I'm just a mouthpiece for the U.S. Army, which I am a ranking captain in, yet I feel as if even the Army can overstate some things and add a bit of drama to the show. Never let it be said I'm regretting my decision, though, as this trip has been quite the adventure and I'm more than happy to do it ten times over!

To answer your inquiry, I reached out to Colonel Philips about the _Reuben James_ and was met with a wall. He insisted that he had no sway over the Navy's affairs, and rather stiffly informed me to keep my eyes on my own shiny red boots and the bond sales flowing in. The most I could scrounge up in the local paper was this cartoon, posted in a small-town publication in Maryland. It shows a shark emblazoned with a swastika leaping from the water towards the _Reuben James_. These jokes aren't nearly as funny when you knew the men on board.

It is dreadful that I couldn't find any more information on you about our friends, and for that I apologize sincerely. I will continue to pull strings as long as I am able, believe me.

As for your insight on Tony, I really couldn't say. The man is a mystery. In fact, I haven't seen him or heard word of him since he stormed out of Casablanca in a huff. I guess some mysteries just aren't meant to be solved. The truth will be revealed in time.

They're calling that I'm supposed to be on stage now, so I'll sign off here. Don't forget to write back soon!

Steve Rogers

-o0o-

 _The Stark Mansion, Upstate New York; May 12, 1942_

The boots were insufferable. No matter how many towels Tony stuffed into the boxy soles, they always pinched at his toes, and his feet would blister from the sweltering heat of the thrusters directly beneath his heels. Nevertheless, he was flying, which was pretty remarkable in and of itself, wounded feet or not.

The suit was his most prized possession, one that hadn't existed until Howard had placed him under house arrest. It had always been a nice fantasy to think about but never put into action. Part of this had been sheer rationality – Howard might snatch up the suits and stuff soldiers into them, mass-producing Tony's pride and joy with cheap steel and slapping American flags onto them. Part of this, however, was pride. Tony had always shown off the best of his designs to potential customers, but this was a creation in a league of its own. The suit was a mechanical marvel, on the bleeding edge of technological capacity, so much so that Tony was shooting in the dark with some of his own personal innovations he had never seen done before.

When completed, it would enshroud the body in hyperlight reinforced steel and vibranium (courtesy of Howard, although he didn't know of his 'donation' quite yet), rigorously segmented to allow for a maximum range of movement. Twin thrusters fit into the elevated soles and also on the hands, to provide a secondary outlet for stability during flight. The sleek body of the suit was streamlined and smooth, more of a bullet than then a tank, but equally as deadly. A whole host of secret weapons could hide in a variety of compartments and customizable defensive measures could be implanted with a click.

Tony knew as he worked that he was onto something new. This would be the next big thing in modern warfare – not super-soldiers with shields or artillery of tanks, as his suit could easily withstand blows from all three. And this was precisely why he had to work in such secrecy. Only someone who was deaf and dumb, so most likely Howard, would be foolish enough to look at Tony's plans and not begin to imagine an inkling of the capacity for power it held. This was Tony's ticket into the big leagues, but one that he wasn't willing to surrender quite yet.

As it happened, he decided to make a prototype for himself in the sprawling underground complex the mansion squatted over. Howard provided Tony with the finest tools, mechanisms and technical assistance in the hopes he would begin to work on missiles or magically summon up the desire to help the war effort. Little did he know Tony was crafting the greatest weapon known to mankind.

Once the suit was finished, no one would remember Howard Stark anymore. Tony wouldn't have to sulk in the shadow of his father's grandeur anymore. Tony Stark would be a household name, and he relished the thought of it.

The trickiest part had been assembling the prototype suit in the first place. He had begun from the ground up, crafting the thrusters by hand and fitting them carefully into the heels of the skeleton-like metal boots that extended up past Tony's ankles. The rods were rigid steel, since Tony didn't want to waste the precious little vibranium he had managed to pilfer on a prototype, and their lack of flexibility had nearly led to his breaking both ankles on many occasions. Once the oxygen and alcohol chambers had been fueled and the power lines were fitted into the steel struts, he was ready to fly.

Tony's first ascent was made in the manner of a very unbalanced ballerina, clinging to a bar on the wall as he tested out the power of the thrust engines. His preliminary trial had sent him head-first into a filing cabinet, leaving a rather nasty dent in the uppermost shelf, and he had to scale back the energy to single-digit percentages to manage sustained indoor flight. He emerged from the testing room that afternoon smelling faintly of something burnt, but he was triumphant.

Every trial presented new challenges to tackle, such as stabilizers to keep his feet upright and the addition of flaps directly in the stream of fire to make minute changes to flight patterns. Additional thrust engines, each half the size of a pencil, emitted miniature pinpricks of flame to automatically right the boots in midair.

Some of the technicians of Howard's payroll were beginning to give him strange looks as he carted full boxes of supplies out of their storerooms and returned with nothing to show for them. So long as they didn't intrude on his business, Tony could hardly mind. _Let them think what they think,_ he thought as he picked himself up from the concrete after a particularly wretched trial, _and I'll see the looks on their faces when I fly straight into the center of Berlin and toast Herr Hitler with the jets on my shoes._

He didn't choose Hitler for any specific reason but that the German was all anyone seemed to talk about these days, and Tony would get the most publicity if he turned him into barbecue. Nothing against the man, of course. He hoped the Chancellor would understand.

It was after one such botched trial when the pounding of footsteps sounded down the flight of steps into Tony's secluded studio. In an effort to be as careful as possible, he had installed a small laser tripwire on the fourth step that would alert Jarvis when the beam was broken. A small red light spun in the corner, his signal that an intruder was arriving.

Tony leaped into action, then was thrown against the far wall as he accidentally activated the thruster in his right foot that sent him in an ungainly backflip. Tugging the power lines from the boots, he dragged a tarp across his table, which also concealed the master copy of the suit's designs, and was busy wrenching off one of the boots when Howard stormed in.

"Dad!" Tony beamed, leaping to his feet. The left boot, still firmly attached to his foot, released a wheezing cough and trickled ash from the heel.

"I trust you've been keeping productive, then?" Howard crossed his arms, eyeing Tony's curious footwear with disdain. "What's this?"

Tony's mind went terrifyingly blank. His lips flapped for a moment without releasing a sound, then he stumbled for a response. "Um, well, father, these are for the President."

"Roosevelt? Whatever on earth would he need with such ugly things?" Howard sneered, and Tony bowed his head in the impression of solemnity.

"Well, sir, you know how walking is so difficult for our brave leader. I only thought, maybe he might want to look more powerful on these foreign trips, now that war is on. So I was working on this apparatus to help guide and support him while he walks. I've only reached the point of reinforcing the ankles."

Even Tony was surprised how easily the lie slipped from his tongue. Tilting his head to the side, Howard surveyed the boots in a new light. If Tony's eyes weren't deceiving him, he detected a moisture around his father's eyes. Hopefully any tears would obscure the fact that the boots had fire-belching thrusters on them that would light Roosevelt's pants on fire.

"A noble gift. When did you become such a philanthropist?"

"One of my many good traits," Tony smiled, and his father nodded in a brisk manner.

"My scientists had been expression doubt about your progress, but I am pleased to see you have moved beyond even my own expectations of growth. A gift to the President, and from you of all people!" he moved forward as if to ruffle Tony's hair, then thought the best of it halfway through the motion. "Keep up the good work, and I look forward to seeing the progress you will make on this endeavor."

Tony fought to keep a straight face. _Progress you will make on this endeavor –_ who even talked like that anymore? "Right. Yes."

Turning to leave, Howard glanced back over his shoulder and paused with a hand on the doorframe. "Oh, by the way, have you seen vibranium that's been misplaced? Our records indicate some has gone missing."

"Can't say that I have," Tony shrugged, dragging his sweaty palms down his slacks when Howard turned away. The chorus of groaning stairs sounded after his father as he hurried back the way he had come.

Tony slumped against the wall, releasing a long-held breath and tapping the tip of his shoe against the concrete floor. Another burst of ash trickled from the thruster. "Time to move on to step two," he whispered as he dragged the right boot back towards his foot. "Sorry, Frankie, but you won't be getting one of these for Christmas."

 _(Thank you so much, as always, for reading! Your feedback is always appreciated!)_


	22. Remnants

_"There are no extraordinary men..._

 _Just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to meet."_

 _\- Fleet Admiral William "Bull" Halsey_

* * *

 _Oahu, Hawaii; July 11, 1942_

The most scenic body of water Clint had ever seen in his meager twenty years was the East River, which, as one can imagine, was not scenic in the least. Thus the shocking tropical beauty of Hawaii came as quite a shock.

The _North Carolina_ maneuvered around the southern tip of the islands, a series of rolling green hills and lush landscapes that seemed to have fallen from the pages of a storybook. Clear water shone like glass, lapping blue waves sparkling in the rising sun. The rest of the sailors couldn't resist the beckoning view of the sea, and the rail became crowded in minutes.

The massive Diamond Head volcano formation loomed above Clint's head, followed by an airfield and the red cross of a hospital on a distant building. Other Navy buildings drew closer as the Showboat rounded the tip of Oahu, including the signal tower. Soon the flutter of semaphore flags and the flash of lights in Morse code pinged between the two sources, while a few radiomen translated to rapt clusters of sailors anxious for the news.

The signal for quarters sounded, and Clint fought his way through the throng of sailors pouring onto the decks to stand beside his 20-millimeter gun. The other sailors took their positions beside him, the shining white uniforms of the _North Carolina_ crew lining the rail. Looking back over his shoulder, Clint could see the officers and radiomen forming ranks on the superstructure as well.

Even as the grandeur of Oahu unfolded before the sailors, remnants of the Japanese attack still lingered. Long scars from fire stretched across the airstrip, and oil blackened the otherwise crystal-clear waters. Dingy uniforms from the cleanup process stood in stark contrast to the clean digs of the _North Carolina_ 's crew. Whoever the ship passed, sailor or civilian, cheered as they drifted along. The sailors remained stoic at their posts, anticipation electrifying their air as the ship rounded Ford Island in the center of the harbor.

The _Utah_ was the first wrecked ship that came in sight of the sailors that day. She was already immersed in water lying flat on her side, her hull torn open by explosions and smaller pockmarks from bullet holes. The jagged steel wrenched itself open in the shape of a wretched maw, gaping up at the sky with floundering breaths. The sailors beside Clint shuddered at the sight.

The crew exchanged salutes with the work crews on Ford Island, over and over again until Clint's arm began to throb, and the Showboat was welcomed by tinny strains of "Anchors Aweigh." The mood was triumphant, but the tone of solemnity was underscored by the scars from oil spills and bursts of flame and the wreckage of once-seaworthy craft.

As the ship came into full view of the naval complex, sailors poured from the structures. Crashing waves of sound descended on the ship's snapping flags, cheers rising in a grand chorus to triumph the entry of the _North Carolina_ into the Pacific fleet.

The _Arizona_ was the next ship to pass into view. Her superstructure was twisted, the only part of her once-proud figure emerging from the deep blue water. A tattered American flag remained on the top of the structure, flapping in a sort of patriotic defiance. Turned on her side and torn apart by Japanese firepower, the _Arizona_ 's sister ship _Oklahoma_ was hardly recognizable beneath the waves and the wreckage. And the sailors cheered on and on and on...

Clint wondered if some of them had been on the ships that now lay beneath the water. He could sympathize with that experience, to feel the tilt of the deck as the proud beams of your ship dip toward the hungry sea. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

After the grand fanfare of an entrance, the sailors were dismissed and life continued as usual on board. Clint worked his way back to the Marine barracks, where the sailors were in a furious discussion about what they would do once they received liberties. As always, the Marines were busy drilling on their guns. Their single 5-inch gun mount had been nicknamed the 5-inch machine gun; they could fill the sky with massive shells in seconds.

"I hear there are really nice beaches on Hawaii. We should go there first," one of the sailors in Clint's bunkroom mused, his head hanging down from his bunk.

"Have they got volcanoes in Hawaii? I mean real ones, the ones that are still exploding and that sort of thing."

"I don't think these volcanoes have an explodin' to do," Clint nodded in the direction of the way they'd come, the Diamondhead still looming in the distance over the sails of the _North Carolina_.

"You're right, the Navy would court-martial them for interfering with the war effort!" Daniel D'Amico was a mouthy Italian from New York and the bunkroom's resident comedian, much to the other sailors' chagrin. He spent most of his time making wisecracks about the officers, more often than not in front of their faces, and giving supposed 'quality commentary' on the newest issues of the Captain America comics.

"Think there are girls in Hawaii?" Reathel Kessinger was a bookish sort of man, an intellectual who kept his nose in a book or in his own business. Unlike the rest of the guys in the bunkroom, he had been in college for two years before he was called up to serve, but he didn't hold it over their heads. A Hawaiian guidebook sat propped against his knees, with large black-and-white pictures of swaying hammocks and tropical sunsets.

"No, Kess, Hawaii is the only place under the flag of the Stars and Stripes that is one hundred percent male." D'Amico jabbed, nudging Kessinger's tour book with the toe of his boot.

"I don't care about the girls so much. Let's hope they have something interesting to do besides the beaches. You know, movies, that sort of thing." Paul Peicott was a sports man who had a soft spot for football and his girl back at home, Duffy. He kept her picture in his breast pocket and was ready and eager to show her portrait to any of the sailors. He craned his neck to see the next page of the book as Kessinger flipped to a section marked 'Attractions.'

"Why, Paulie? Pining after your girl? Maybe Katherine Hepburn will help still your beating heart..." D'Amico crooned, and Peicott pushed him away with a swipe of his powerful arms.

"Enough, enough. What about you, Barton? Looking forward to white sand beaches and island girls?"

"Oh, sure," Clint leaned back on his bunk, peering down through the crack between his mattress and the wall to get a look at Kessinger's guidebook. "Anything else good in there, Kess?"

"I suppose we'll have to ask what the Marines want to do as well, if they want to associate with us common soldiers. My arms are still sore from the time they made us do physical training with them. How do you keep up, Barton?" Falling back to his bunk, D'Amico released a languid groan. His hand fell across Kessinger's guidebook.

"We had a PT instructor who worked us hard during my last stint with the Navy." Clint shrugged, and Peicott nodded approvingly.

"I enjoy when we work out with them. The boys in this ship have to be on the top of their game if we want to defeat the Japs."

"Clint, you know that radioman who works in the superstructure, right?" Kessinger asked, dragging his guidebook away from D'Amico's grasp.

"Yeah, Paty. Why?"

"Well, I figured we could go up on the superstructure and check out the view. But that's officer's country, so we need an inside man. Should we go?"

"Relax, man! They'll have some warm beer for us on shore, and we'll wander to our heart's content. What's the rush?" D'Amico interjected.

"I don't know about you, but I'd go up on the superstructure just to hear the broadcasts. Do the radio boys get news from home?" Peicott asked, already halfway out the door. Clint and Kessinger followed after him, while D'Amico stumbled behind the lot trying to drag his boots on.

"Wait, fellas, I'm comin'!"

"I couldn't tell ya, Peicott, but there's no harm in finding out." Clint followed Peicott out the door, although he was only partly motivated by the incentive of news. He was mostly drawn to the striking scenery of Oahu, the glittering water and lush hills untouched beside the harbor. An echoing thump and a curse indicated that D'Amico had wrangled his boots on, and the sailors streamed out of their bunk and hurried up the ladders.

A flurry of activity enveloped the deck, which was crammed full of sailors bustling about or simply soaking up the Pacific sun. Board games and hands of poker were common sights, along with craps games hidden behind the big guns and out of the sight of officers. Some men were sunbathing on the 5-inch mounts, and the clanking from one of the guns indicated that the Marines were drilling yet again.

"Give it a rest, bud!" D'Amico pounded a fist against the side of the mount, and was confronted with a red-faced Marine with a neck as thick as a tree trunk who scared him off back into the crowd of sailors.

Ladders up to the superstructure were crowded. If there was one thing Clint missed from the _Reuben James_ , it was the rapid transportation between the decks and the daring missions he had embarked on with only a carabiner and a metal wire between him and certain death. Things on the _North Carolina_ were much more structured, regimented, and very crowded.

The various layers of the superstructure were crammed full of officers and sailors, so Clint ascended higher and higher until he could hear the American flag on top of the ship waving in the wind. Peicott stepped off when they were level with the first conning tower, wrangling some room for his bulky physique with a few well-placed elbows. Clint pushed his way in front of two gangly apprentice seamen.

Green trees and shrubbery extended in a rustling wave, surrounded by surreal blue water. Clint tried to appreciate the view, but his eyes were drawn back down to the scarred and mangled form of what used to be Pearl Harbor. Workmen scurried across the concrete, salvaging what they could from oil dumps and crates that had managed to escape the bombardment. Bodies were still being salvaged from the water, uniforms scarred and burned until they were unrecognizable.

He watched the scene unfold with cold detachment. Once a man falls from a zeppelin and survives Nazi sniper fire, he can do anything, or so Clint hoped. This was nothing compared to the wreck of the _Reuben James._

For the sailors beside him, the ruins below seemed to have a greater effect. Faces bathed in the golden light of the midday sun, their expressions hardened as their eyes strayed down to the forms of the ships lingering beneath the water. One turned away and hurried back down the ladder, most likely to be sick, as another body was pulled from the water. The rest stood at the rail in a wall of white and watched. Horror, shock, and anger flickered across their features, observing the jagged forms of the ships that could have easily been their own. That _might_ be their own.

"A real shame. C'mon, let's go find some cards and some money," D'Amico grabbed Clint's collar and dragged him away from the rail.

"You haven't got any money, Dan."

"It's never stopped me before, has it?" D'Amico winked, then dragged Peicott along with him as he started down the ladder again. "Paulie, can I borrow some money?"

"Not likely!" Peicott roared. "Where's the money I lent you before, huh?"

"I'll pay you back, I swear. Scout's honor!"

"What honor?" Clint shouted, scuffing his boot against D'Amico's head as he started to descend the ladder and receiving a dirty look in return.

"You're a scream, Barton. Come on, a man has gotta have some cash when he's on liberty!"

Their boots slapped against the deck as they started for the rail, Peicott rubbing his knuckles in D'Amico's hair. "Don't you worry, Danny boy. Just stick with me and we'll have the trip of a lifetime!"

"Forgive me if I'm not jumping for joy," D'Amico groused. It was all so much like the _Reuben James_ Clint couldn't help but smile. The island before them, the sun beating overhead, a thousand possible adventures waiting on shore - this was a new beginning, and one he welcomed with open arms.


	23. Treachery at One Thousand Feet

_"Everybody calls everybody a spy, secretly..._

 _Everybody is under surveillance. You never feel safe."_

 _\- Agnes Smedley_

* * *

 _The Stark Mansion; August 7, 1942_

Tony's first fan club was struck up in the neighborhood beside the mansion. It was comprised of elderly men and women with nothing better to do than gossip about the streaks of light they saw in the sky every night. They had even snapped some blurry photographs of the suit at work, which looked more like coffee stains than robotic suits or aliens or whatever their addled minds could comprehend. Not exactly the attention he had been expecting.

The attention he wanted, however, came quickly. He had been leafing through a copy of the _Ladies Home Journal_ , which was detailing the nightly exploits of the so-called media sensation, the 'Flying Man,' when a business card slipped free from the crease of the binding and fell to the floor. Tony glanced from side to side, but no one was around to see the card fall except for a maid dusting the china cabinet down the hall. Stooping to balance on his heels, he plucked the card from the carpet and began to read.

The blocky Cyrillic characters were pressed deep into the creamy paper card. Tony skimmed them with his fingers as he read. Brief and not at all subtle, very Soviet.

 _Presence requested at 2200 hours - Empire State Building._

 _Business discussion._

So the Russians wanted to do business. Tony was immediately wary. The message could just as easily been picked up by his father, who would be the most likely candidate from the Stark mansion entourage to be flying around the sky at night. A snarl of suspicion rooted in Tony's gut as he perused the paper again. The card was so blunt it was almost familiar. Did Howard regularly get house calls from Russians?

It seemed like an adventure from the pages of a spy movie, so Tony dressed accordingly. He wore his second-nicest suit with a tasteful green tie – red would seem like he was making an effort to please the Communists, blue too closely associated with the President – and he even buffed some of the scuffs from his shoes. The flight to New York would take less than half an hour, thanks to his new iron suit, but he wanted to be prepared.

The briefcase containing his suit clasped in one hand, Tony surveyed his reflection in the mirror and smoothed back his hair with a shaking hand. He released a short breath and drew himself up, chest out, and gave his most confident smile.

"Always a pleasure, Comrade Ivan. How's your mother doing? No, too amicable. Be cool, be cool." He breathed out again, ready for another attempt. "Comrade Ivan, how nice to hear from you. What is this business you would like to discuss with me?"

Swinging the briefcase onto his desk with casual ease, Tony opened the clasps to reveal a compartment jammed full with neat reams of paper. Each was slightly smudged with pencil marks or the smallest of water stains, but they were just as legible as they were valuable. Tony leafed through artillery pieces and super-tanks before his fingers brushed against the false bottom to the suitcase. Fumbling for the hidden clasp, he pulled back on the lever and dragged the stacks of designs onto the table as the compartment swung open and the suit began to unfold.

The ankles had just snapped into an upright position when Tony slowly pushed them back into their hiding spot with a hiss of hydraulics. There would be no dress rehearsal with this meeting. He would be going in cold, with no idea who his opponents were are what they wanted from him.

Tony hated not knowing things.

-o0o-

The shadow of the Empire State Building loomed above Tony's head as the bloated form of a zeppelin edged toward its finial. From his vantage point on the second observation deck, the rigging crewmen seemed to scurry like miniatures. Flashing lights illuminated the outlines of their wiry frames as they tied off ropes and extended ladders, a hair's breadth away from certain death.

Fingers flexing on the handle of his briefcase, Tony checked his watch for the umpteenth time and tapped his toes against the brick floor of the deck. The Russians thew all social mores of what qualified as 'fashionably late' out the window. It was edging on eleven o'clock, and they hadn't shown.

Tony braced his elbows on the railing of the deck and peered down the dizzying drop. After flying in his suit for so long, a fall like this wasn't nearly tall enough to faze him. A few yards away, a cluster of Army men gathered near the rail and blustered about, their loud chatter drawing the looks of a few girls on a nearby bench. Their intention all along, Tony assumed. Guys his age were getting stood up by girls, not Russian agents.

"Stark?" The low growl made him jump, and he whirled around to see a craggy-faced man with hunched shoulders standing before him. He peered at Tony through bushy eyebrows, a dark gray overcoat shrouding his figure. _And maybe disguising a weapon,_ Tony thought as his eyes scanned the Russian's waist. The telltale bulge of a gun handle would be easily concealed by the swallowing fabric.

"Shall we take this somewhere more private?" The man didn't seem to talk – his mouth cracked open and he _creaked_ , like his body was sculpted from rigid stone. Not waiting for a response, he shuffled to the stairs to reach the top deck. Tony trailed after him, watching his furtive glances from side to side as they forced their way through the throngs of late-night dates and mobs of uniforms.

"You seem nervous," he began, and the Russian snorted. "Who are you looking for?"

"Germans. British. Japanese," he shrugged, reaching out with a gnarled hand to grip the stair railing, "Anyone who could interfere with our arrangement. I am surprised the Germans aren't here yet."

"Oh? Why's that?" Tony pried, but the man brushed off his question with a jerk of his head.

"Loathsome people. They are the perfect customers for what you are trying to sell."

"Yeah? It's bad business to tell me who I should be selling to. Not that I don't appreciate your business, of course."

They emerged on the highest observation deck, New York sprawling beneath their feet in a haze of smoke and a sea of swimming lights. Off to the side, the shape of the zeppelin bobbed as it was lashed to the finial. The deck was noticeably emptier, with the wind whipping from all sides and the grinding of the zeppelin engines detracting from the breathtaking view. The Russian sat at one of the benches and beckoned for Tony to take a seat beside him.

"I am Ivanov," he began, extending his hand to shake. Tony knew the name was fake, of course. Ivanov was as common as a last name could get in Russia, ensuring that this contact would be completely invisible and untraceable. "I contacted my superiors when I read about the flying man. Naturally, you were the only possible architect for something so elaborate. And when I was informed about your previous efforts to sell to the state... My superiors were very intrigued."

Tony's eyes narrowed. Ivanov was smarter than he had expected, for a Russian sleeper agent. He had expected the stiff old man to be more of a grunt. "I'm glad they're interested. How can I help you?"

"I am only the messenger." Turning away, the Russian's square jaw stood in sharp profile to the dancing lights beneath him. "If all goes well, I will connect you with –"

"With your superior, yeah. I figured. Look, why can't I just see the guy now? Anything he wants, I can make. I have technology like no one's ever seen!" Tony watched as Ivanov's eyes flashed. Was that a shiver of fear passing over the man?

"My superior is a reclusive man. He needs to know an investment is worth his time and money before he dives in." A pause, the ghost of a threat hanging in the air. "I will tell you this because you are young and vulnerable, Stark. Most people who meet my superior face-to-face end up on the wrong end of a gun barrel."

A thrill of exhilaration ran through Tony; he was glad he had worn his second-nicest suit to this exchange. Ivanov, the Empire State Building, the secrecy, all could have been pulled straight from a movie script! "What do you want? I have guns, tanks, mines, white phosphorus..."

Cutting him off with a wave of his hand, Ivanov glanced back to the dazzling skyline. He wouldn't meet Tony's eyes. "We know of your capabilities. The Soviet government wants to make sure of your loyalty."

"Loyalty? I won't hold anything back. I'll make sure you get everything you pay for. Easy."

Ivanov shook his head, a jolting motion like the ticking hand of a clock swaying from side to side. "You misunderstand me. Loyalty to the state. You will not sell to any other countries."

Tony's brows furrowed, mulling over what Ivanov had just said. If what the Russian revealed about the Germans being perfect customers was true, he didn't want to miss out on that opportunity. He had been shunned by America and Italy, but he still hadn't had a crack at Japan yet, and he was sure they would be interested in his maritime technology. Would he really put all of his eggs in the Soviet basket?

"What about selling to your allies? The British, say, or even America? They don't pose a threat to you."

A toying smile hung on Ivanov's gray lips for a second, like Tony's ignorance amused him. "America and the Soviet Union... Are not on the best of terms at the time. It is better to restrict our business to just my country. Better for us all." He emphasized, leaning closer while Tony edged away.

"How do I know your man will even buy in the first place?" Tony accused, an empty question to earn him a little more time.

"This is coming from the man who builds flying suits. If your works are half as good as you say they are, I have confidence that he will buy."

Tony straightened his shoulders, his fingers toying with the end of his tie. The fabric was beginning to fray between his nails. "And if I say no?"

Another jerky shrug. "Then we depart from this place as friends. No harm done."

 _No harm done, my ass,_ Tony thought. He studied Ivanov's expression, the lines carved deep into his face from years of work in a dangerous business. This man would walk home to some apartment next to Americans, and no one would be the wiser of his true identity. Tony didn't care about that, though. The money on the line, recognition from the largest militia in the world, and immense prestige to boot... When the dust of the war settled, everyone would know his name. He felt Ivanov's promise like a physical ache in his chest, his better judgment at war with his heart.

"We're unlikely friends, you and I," he mused, eyes tracing the city skyline. "A capitalist and a Communist, a free man and a slave to the state. Poor and rich. A strange combination, huh?"

"Who is really free here, Stark?" Ivanov intoned, his voice dry and quiet beneath the gust of the wind.

Tony's nails bit into his palms as he thought. He needed more time to make a decision, to sell his life away to the mysterious machine of Soviet bureaucracy. It technically wasn't treason, like Dasch had been, not like Tony concerned himself with such things. A lightning-bolt of fear ran through his body for a moment – did the Soviets know about Dasch?

 _They'll kill me in an instant if they find out._

"I won't do business with you unless I can meet the man who's calling the shots." Tony crossed his arms, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his wavering confidence.

Ivanov's pitted face remained impassive, his only betrayal of emotion a slight tilt of the head. Then, slowly, a smile stretched across his fleshy lips, revealing a flash of dull-colored teeth. He extended his hand to shake, his palm enveloping Tony's hand as he pumped his arm vigorously.

"I wish you the greatest luck, my young friend," he muttered, "For I would really like to see someone come out of my superior's meetings alive."

 _(yo yo yo thank you so much for reading!)_


	24. Severed Ties

_"I've always heard that a seagull is the spirit of a seaman_

 _that is no longer with us... If I ever get to the point that I can't walk_

 _to this ship, and you see a big seagull upon battle two on the_

 _splinter screen, don't chase it away._

 _Throw him a fish and call him Joe."_

 _\- Real Admiral Joseph Stryker_

* * *

 _Guadalcanal; September 15, 1942_

"You heard about the German spies that got caught on Long Island?" Kessinger called over the top of his newspaper, which was two months old and a gift from the men on one of the other ships from the convoy. He had been the first to tear into the new reading material and had been quoting articles from it to the sailors in the barracks whenever there was any free time. The one about the flying man had been pretty interesting, but the politics bored Clint. This time was an exception.

"No way! Real Krauts?" he asked, sitting up on his bunk. Even the Marines perked up at the sound of the news, and Kess continued his monologue.

"Four saboteurs caught off the coast of Amagansett. It says here they had cash, American clothes, and four crates of explosives. They tried to bribe a coast guard, but he reported them. They had buried the explosives – here, they've got a picture, come look – but the Germans scattered after the coast guard boy left. It's a real chase!"

"Don't spoil it with your commentary, then!" One of the Marines shouted after Kessinger, who brought the newspaper up past his face like he was hiding behind it.

"The report says they got a hotel, looking like every other immigrant out there. One of the head guys got tired of the antics of the others, says under interview he said they were too reckless."

"Damn Nazis, 'course they were!" D'Amico swore, and his sentiment was corroborated by the Marines in the back of the room. The sailors and soldiers hung onto Kessinger's every word as he continued to read.

"One of these lead guys, Dasch, decided to turn in his partners in crime. After getting a look at the high life of New York City, he sent the FBI after his compatriots, and in days the gang was rounded up and arrested. It says their trials are pending, but this is from months ago."

"I hope they swing," Peicott growled, drumming his fingers against his uniform. "If there's anyone worse than the guys we're going up against it's the Nazis."

"At least he was a regretful Nazi. Why would he go turn himself in like that?" Kessinger puzzled, tilting his head to the side and studying the text of the article before him.

"The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi in my book." Peicott retorted, followed by cheers from the Marines. "They got all the way to America by U-boat?"

"Let's consult our resident expert. Barton, you've seen a U-boat, right?"

Clint nodded briskly, straightening in his seat and commanding the attention of the cramped quarters. "I should hope so, it shot down and sunk the last ship I was stationed on."

"What did it look like?" Peicott's eyes narrowed, envisioning the submarine before him.

"Massive, all blackened steel. There was the figure of a runnin' devil on the top, painted in red." Clint added this last detail for effect, and he could swear he saw one of the Marines shudder out of the corner of his eye.

"Damn. I'd love to see one of them go after the Showboat. We've been battle-tested now, the Kraut machine wouldn't stand a chance!" one of the Marines, a bulky man named Fox, called out from the rear bunk. "But you think a U-boat could make it to the States?"

"Oh, for sure."

The standard murmurs of the hallways rose to a simmering tide, and Kessinger leaned his head away from the paper to look. Dull thuds reverberated through the walls and the floor, followed by what sounded like shouting up toward the deck. D'Amico propped himself on his elbow, sighing as he rolled upright and started dragging his boots back on.

"How much you wanna bet they'll call us to battle stations? C'mon, I need the money. Anybody?"

Kessinger paled, the pages of his newspaper crumpling between his fingers. "That sounded like a torpedo. Don't you think it sounded like a torpedo?"

The murmur was rising to a roar, so Clint swung down from his bunk and started for the door. "I'll head to the signal bridge to see what's going on. Anyone want to come with?"

"Yeah, better than rotting in here with the rest of you lot." D'Amico stood, brushing off his slacks. "We'll give you lazy bums the rundown when we come back under, huh?"

"Scat!" One of the Marines hollered, and Clint ducked out of the doorway with D'Amico at his heels. They ascended a pair of steep ladders onto the deck of the ship. The view in the blazing sunlight was enough to stop him where he stood, and D'Amico nearly ran him over as he emerged from belowdecks to watch the sights.

Billowing smoke blossomed into the sky, blackening the blue firmament. Flames lapped at a distant ship's deck, climbing up the metal and casting its refuse into the sparkling blue. The smoke stretched upward for what looked to be miles, a proverbial pillar of fire straight up to heaven – men who spied it couldn't help but pray. The deep crunches heard belowdecks were the explosions that peppered the ship as it thrashed in its death throes.

Clint snagged a pair of binoculars from a nearby sailor, focusing the lens and staring with mouth agape as another explosion tore across the deck. Sailors and a Kingfisher plane flew through the air and into the water. The broiling heat made his vision through the lenses swimmy.

"Jesus Christ, what happened? Who is she?" D'Amico grabbed the same sailor and shook him by his shoulders. The man was so startled he could hardly form syllables.

"Th-the _Wasp,_ sir! She's just been torpedoed!"

Clint's blood froze as he peered through the binoculars. The _Wasp,_ Sabin's ship, charred to a crisp and sinking rapidly in torpedo-infested waters. D'Amico wasted no time yanking the binoculars from Clint's hands and tossing them back to the sailor, dragging him up to the ladder that led to the signal bridge. Stumbling after him, Clint could hardly bear to take his eyes from the _Wasp_ as she floundered in the water, the smoke pouring over her side. He was pulling himself up the ladder when the _North Carolina_ listed hard to the right, throwing him against the edge of the ladder railing. One hand went flying from its grip and Clint pulled his weight toward the ladder, swearing as he clung for dear life. The turn put him at the perfect angle to see the geyser of water erupt from the bow of the nearest destroyer. The ship's front was shredded, tearing a large chunk out of her hull like the torpedo had taken a bite out of the steel.

At that moment the shrill alarm for battle stations rang across the Showboat, and D'Amico was kicking Clint's head to get him moving back down the ladder. Batting his friend's feet away, Clint slid down the length of the ladder and ran for his mount. He had made it halfway when a torpedo collided with the port side of the _North Carolina,_ sending her jumping out of the water and slamming back into the Pacific. Sailors went sprawling, and Clint was thrown a foot into the air before colliding with the deck. Water gushed over the side of the ship, dousing him with salty brine and a dark sludge-like substance that had to be the ship's oil. The entire structure trembled, sending waves of seawater over the deck.

Leaping to his feet, Clint rushed over the stunned soldiers and took his place at his 20-millimeter mount. He was the last sailor from his group to arrive, most likely looking like he had just escaped from the depths of an oily hell. Eyes scanned the sky for planes, sailors poised and waiting for orders. Clint's heart pounded in his chest with furious anticipation. He wasn't scared by the attack, he wasn't even shocked – he was excited. Rigorous training on the 20s demanded a chance to show his skills, and who better to use them on than the men who had attacked his friends?

Nothing came. The skies remained clear blue, mottled by the foul billows of smoke from the carcass of the _Wasp_ , with no enemy planes in sight. Nothing to shoot at. The frustration was tangible. Clint heard muttered swears echoing from the gunnery crew as they stood ready to fire. What use would an anti-aircraft gun be against a submarine, anyway?

They stood for hours, muscles tensed and spring-loaded to leap into battle at a moment's notice, but another threat never appeared. The only motion the ship made was to turn back on the return-trip to Pearl Harbor. Whispers through the gun crews informed Clint that the torpedo damage was too severe for the ship's damage control to patch up in the water, so they would be heading away from the fight.

Bitter curses echoed across the deck, and many men laid down on the deck to relax after hours of tense waiting. Clint rolled his shoulders back, taking a seat with the men from his mount as they discussed the events of the brief attack.

"I swear, we're never going to fight in this war. I haven't fired a shot yet!" One complained, then amended his statement. "Not that there's a problem with that – I love this ship and all, but I enlisted to shoot some Japs, not eat ice cream and do calisthenics!"

"They're fighting and dying over there, and we turn tail and run... I'm going to apply for transfer to get off this damn ship. They should put a sign on these guns: _For Display Only._ "

"You're an idiot. I'd rather have no fighting at all than risk getting killed by the Japanese. Don't you want to get home alive after all this mess?"

"You're the one who's an idiot! They just torpedoed the _Wasp_ and killed our boys. Pacifist!" the first sailor roared, jumping to his feet and drawing his fists back before Clint and the other sailors pulled him away. The second sailor sat still, the image of calm, and watched the situation unfold with a serene expression.

Their frustration was paralleled by the other sailors on deck, who were observing the would-be fight with mild interest. The others were looking to the side of the ship, where a knot of boys stood and looked over the rail with palpable grief. Clint tapped the shoulder of one of his mount partners and nodded in the direction of the small group.

"What's going on over there?"

"You didn't hear? Abe Geary got washed overboard when the torpedo hit. Those are the guys from his gun mount. Real shame."

"Yeah, terrible," Clint replied, dumbfounded by the sailor's claim. How could he have been thrown over the side that easily?

"And did you hear about the rooms that got flooded down belowdeck? They had to seal them off to keep the ship watertight. Some of the guys will have to be sleeping beside the flooded bedrooms with their buddies still inside!"

Clint expected his stomach to turn at this, but there was no reaction to the sailor's grotesque claim. He stood on the deck feeling numb, the buzz of conversation and the movements of sailors transitioning back to general quarters surrounding him, washing over the trauma that shrouded the ship. Excusing himself with a wave of his hand, the sailor hurried off to spread his gory gossip with some of his friends and left Clint to his own thoughts, if only briefly.

"Came as quick as we could, they just dismissed us," D'Amico's labored breathing sounded beside Clint, and he turned to see his bunkmate hunched over to catch his breath. "Are you all right? You're covered in oil!"

"Funny, I didn't notice," Clint extended his arms, which were soaked through with the viscous mixture of black oil and salty seawater. The oil was beginning to dry in the steaming Pacific heat, releasing a vile smell. He turned away from D'Amico and looked back over the rail, where the wreck of the _Wasp_ shrank to a smaller and smaller smudge of black across the sky.

"What a day, huh? We're attacked and don't get to fight back. Not a single shot, I tell you! Hey, what's the matter with you?" D'Amico moved to clap a hand on Clint's shoulder, then noticed the oil and retracted his arm.

"Nothing. It's just that... I knew a guy out there."

"Don't we all, huh? Look, I'm going down to get some ice cream after this mess. Want to come along?"

Clint waved him off with an oil-slicked hand. "Sure. Just give me a minute."

As soon as his friend had departed, Clint rested his forearms on the metal of the rail and released a slow breath, keeping his eyes on the horizon and the black cloud of smoke hovering where the sea met the sky. The _North Carolina_ limped away from danger, he was alive, and in the distance the _Wasp_ sank into the unceasing hunger of the lapping waves.

 _(Thoughts so far? Thank you so much for your feedback!)_


	25. Unlikely Comrades

_"I trust no one, not even myself."_

 _\- Joseph Stalin_

* * *

 _November 24, 1942; Vienna, Austria_

A brisk breeze cut through the Ringstrasse, and Tony tightened his coat around his shoulders as he perched on a bench across from Vienna's city hall. From above the slender roofs of the street stretched the steeple of St. Stephen's Cathedral, juxtaposed against the boxy anti-aircraft flak towers. Spindly Viennese airships patrolled the skies – the city had been attacked recently by a squadron of Soviet bombers and was on high alert – but they were obviously of Austrian make. The gentle curves and weak supports were meant for aesthetic appeal, not warfare, and they didn't have the bulky physique of German ships.

He was surprised to see the airships didn't bear the ever-present swastika that seemed to stifle every available wall space in Vienna. Massive posters of Adolph Hitler bridged street corners, and scarlet flags dangled from windows like so many drooping flowers. Perhaps if he were in the airship, drifting above the skies, he could imagine the city streets without the Nazi flags. They looked horribly garish and modern against the curving medieval stone of Vienna, and only marred the natural beauty of the Ringstrasse.

The Nazis were certainly proponents of propaganda, but their science divisions were equally invested. They were among the many who had reached out to Tony after the international news sensation of the flying man, and he had responded to their interest cheerfully. But he had not traveled all the way to Austria to meet the Nazis.

Dmitry Vasiliev was the contact that most intrigued him. Despite all of Tony's and Jarvis' research, he couldn't find anything on the man except for his questionable track record. Vasiliev was a cheese merchant, which was not a very high-brow job to occupy, except that he resided near a tsarist resort on the Crimean Peninsula and lived as lavish a lifestyle as a king. The Russian had a curious history of appearing in a town, selling his wares and extending his network for a few days, and then leaving a day or so before the discovery of a dead government official. The supposed culprits were always caught, and Vasiliev moved on to his next target.

The connection was so subtle Tony almost missed it the first time he studied the documents. A benefit of not associating with Steve and Clint anymore was that Tony didn't have to suffer through their plodding thought processes; he had no doubt they would have missed such an imperceptible link. Vasiliev was very well known wherever he went, but he was careful to make sure his realm of interaction and that of his targets never overlapped. _It's gratifying to meet another genius to spar with_ , Tony thought as he brushed away the remains of his lunch from the bench with the end of his newspaper.

The Russian was not a low-profile man. This Tony could see from his approach in an expensive American fur coat, a tan hat pulled fashionably low over one brow like a movie star. Pristine leather shoes ascended the marble stairs to where Tony reclined, and a cream-colored overcoat brushed against the wood as Vasiliev took a seat. He was ready for business in an instant, glancing at the paper beside Tony with casual disinterest.

"Nasty weather, isn't it?" Tony began, and Vasiliev tilted his head to the side as a stiff breeze ruffled his overcoat.

"You must be cold. A young man alone the streets of Vienna... Too young to enlist, I assume?" His accent was sharp, with the slightest bite of Russian consonants the only flaw in his English. Back straight, eyes as steely and cold as the sky.

Tony's cheeks flushed with a flash of anger. Did everything have to be about the damn war? "You know why I'm here. I don't expect a merchant such as yourself to understand the importance of my work, but –"

"I understand in great detail the various plans my contact has interest in. I understand the function of the thrusters you equipped into your flying suit, which intrigues my contact most of all. I can also have any of the people in this courtyard kill you at any moment. How about him? Or him?" Vasiliev pointed to a collection of Hitler Youth boys standing near the city hall. "So do not for a moment coddle me, thinking you are smarter than me. I can assure you, you are not, and if you even dare to assume that you are I will have you slain brutally on these streets. Shall we proceed?"

Tony's expression was unfazed, but his heart pounded as he forced his eyes to remain on Vasiliev and not the multitude of people who could be his killers by the end of the day. "Are you willing to buy?"

How very unlike Dasch. No mind games, no backhanded strategies, just business. With a few death threats thrown in to spice things up, of course. "My contact is a government man. He would like to purchase the rights to a variety of your designs. I have the list here." From the leather-lined interior of the Russian's pocket came a folded slip of paper. Tony's eyes scanned the neat, small print, a list that went on and on until his heart was throbbing against his ribs with excitement. He would be richer than Vasiliev if this deal went through.

His only qualm was that whoever Vasiliev's contact was had requested a great deal of his technology. If he were to sell everything on the list, he would have slim pickings if he wanted to advertise his services in Germany or Japan. But did it matter? Tony would be paid handsomely, and he could use the funds to create more weapons for new countries until they blew themselves to bits and he was fabulously wealthy.

"There is one stipulation," Vasiliev added, carefully pulling the list from Tony's fingers. "My contact will only go through with the exchange if I can see a demonstration of your suit in action."

Tony laughed, sounding hollow against the howling wind. "My what, sorry?"

"Do not attempt to fool me, Tony Stark. It will not work." The Russian noted, a cold smile on his face.

"I-I didn't bring it with me," Tony hedged, and Vasiliev's smile hardened to a deep scowl.

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to lie to me."

Standing briskly, Tony crossed his arms and glowered down at the man seated below him. "This is ridiculous. I am rescinding my consent for this exchange. Have a good day." The last sentence was infused with as much anger as he could manage, to make expressly clear that he hoped Vasiliev had a perfectly rotten day, and he was about to pull off a flouncing, dramatic exit when the Russian towered over him.

"You will not. You are talented, but your ego damages your chances for real success, seeing as you are willing to bargain off your designs for a fraction of their worth. It is this ego that lets me know this transaction will continue. Your designs are dated back a year or so, are they not? A successful and enterprising child like yourself, you would surely try to sell them to other powers before coming to me. America? Italy? They all turned you down, I assume.

"You're desperate, not because you need the money, but because your pride demands you need to have made something of your wartime work and soon. I believe the suit is something you've kept for yourself, but it was also the key to projecting yourself to the scientific field of interest. You are reluctant to sell it, or reveal any secrets about it, but you are willing to in order to feed your selfish instinct. Do you think I am an idiot? Sit down."

Tony sat. "Um, is it true what you were saying about me selling for a fraction of the price? Because I'm very willing to negotiate."

"The suit, or I'll tell my contact your original price. I am sure we can come to a reasonable conclusion." Vasiliev folded his hands in his lap, watching Tony expectantly. A gust of wind whipped past the two like knives, the bitter cold ruffing Vasiliev's overcoat and sweeping Tony's hair into his face. He stifled the urge to shudder and lifted his chin.

"I'm walking away. Thanks to you, I'll be selling my designs for much more now," Tony smirked, but his confident expression faded when he heard the Russian's laughter. It was a low, throaty laugh, like Tony had genuinely amused him, which was even more frightening.

"If you haven't sold the designs yet at dirt-cheap prices, you think anyone will buy when you increase them? Admit it. I am your best and only option."

Tony scrambled for any possible alternative, any other way around the Russian's cruel and cutting logic, but he was helpless before Vasiliev's calculating stare. Only a master could have orchestrated such a complex web of deception, and it occurred to Tony that _he_ was Vasiliev's next victim. He wouldn't end up stiff in an alley, but he might as well have been, trapped in a deal with the scum of the earth who could manipulate him like a puppet. Despair filled him, replaced in an instant with simmering anger.

Nobody played Tony Stark for a fool and got away with it.

"You are searching for any other ways out. There are none. If you let me see the suit in action, my contact will buy for four times the previous price. Then we will be finished here. Do we have a deal?"

"Five times." Tony stuck out his hand, having half the mind to spit on it, but before he could Vasiliev extended his hand and shook.

"I eagerly await the demonstration."

"I'll bet you do," Tony muttered, turning away from the bench and hurrying down the steps. He wove his way through the crowds rushing to escape the bitter chill, darting behind the carefully sculpted bushes that formed the gardens leading up to the city hall. The pack of Hitler Youth boys crowded in front of the bush where his suitcase was stashed, and he thrust his hand into the foliage while their masses disguised his actions. A sea of khaki whirled behind him as he grasped to cool handle the case, then strode forward up the steps of the city hall looking every inch a proper, if somewhat young, businessman.

Ducking into the main entrance of the building, Tony scanned the windows and sweeping architecture of the foyer. He was certain Vasiliev was tailing him somehow, or maybe it was his sudden paranoia from the Russian's scathing analysis of his character that was putting him on edge. Never before had he been so exposed before. The Stark family was one great facade, and Vasiliev had taken a hammer to that carefully structured front.

He took to the stairs immediately, feet pounding against the stone and lush red carpet that stretched across the center of the rising steps. Fatigue was the last thing on his mind as he took the stairs two at a time, yearning to reach the roof and strap into the suit. When he was in the suit he was free, he was in control, and no one could touch him as he rocketed through the air. Tony felt the desire to fly stab at him like a physical wound, and in minutes he burst through the door onto the roof. Dragging in a deep breath of air, Tony unlatched the suitcase and keyed in a command into the back of the headpiece. Green lights flickered on as the other parts came to life, but Tony selected a small earpiece from the velvet interior of the case.

"How are we doing, Jarvis?" he called, and the faint hum of static sounded from the earpiece as his artificial intelligence system came through.

"I'm having to piggyback on radio signals, sir. I hope the Austrians like to dance to binary code." Jarvis responded testily. International expeditions always made him nervous for Tony's safety - he cared more about Tony than Tony did.

"C'mon, we've got a Russian to upstage. Send the parts on up."

The hiss of hydraulics sounded from the briefcase as the smallest segments of the suit rose on spiraling pillars. Metal pipes released bursts of steam as they elevated from their carrying case and fitted around Tony's knees and elbows. The larger segments came next, including the plates surrounding his legs, arms, and chest. Crimson blurs surrounded him and fitted into place, each joint snapping cleanly into the other with the flexibility and lithe strength that Tony had shaped himself. The thrusters spun like drills against his heels and hands, powerful fuel cells resting against his calves and forearms.

The final piece was the face mask, which Tony applied himself. It clicked into place and illuminated with lightbulbs and holographic displays Jarvis superimposed on his vision. A map of the Ringstrasse minimized against the glass of his vision slats, along with the weather and a calendar, for some reason. Tony dismissed the popup with a wave of his hand.

Flexing his toes inside the metal boots, Tony ran for the edge of the roof and leaped to the sky. The thrusters fired immediately in full force, propelling him forward into the air as the world accelerated to a blur before him. The rush of adrenaline left Tony's stomach hundreds of feet beneath him. The ancient streets of Vienna stretched on for miles, dappled by the rays of sunlight that fought through the dull clouds. From his vantage point Tony could make out the troop movements along the major streets, waves of brown-shirted Hitler Youth and ordinary Austrians trying to scrape by with lowered heads.

The benefit of flying in occupied territory was that no one looked up.

He was wary of staying in one place for too long – even though Austria had been thrown flat on its back when Germany invaded, those anti-aircraft towers looked like they could still pack a punch – so Tony's heels skimmed the slate-gray clouds as he pushed the suit higher into the air. The frigid temperature chilled him to the bone, but the pure elation of being in the suit surpassed and material discomfort.

Looping through the air with a lazy turn and somersault, Tony descended so that Vasiliev would be able to see the maneuverability of his craft. The hand stabilizers performed perfectly, reacting and adjusting to his every motion to ensure a level flight. Jarvis' contributions continued to give him a readout on his location, speed, and altitude, the latter of which were reaching dizzying levels. As soon as he felt he could climb no higher, Tony cut the controls and allowed himself to free-fall through the autumn wind. The world spun through his helmet, flashes of streets and buildings and patches of green swirling before him like a painting.

Cutting his fall, Tony kicked off the side of a brick building and rocketed back to the park. A whir of warning from Jarvis alerted him that he was traveling too fast, but he was too excited to care. The world dissolved into one sonic blur, and he was unstoppable as he sliced through the crashing waves of wind like a bullet.

A shot split through the air, jolting Tony to a halt as his automatic protocols leaped into action. A red blaze of light flashed beneath his visor, and his speed was slashed as energy was diverted to assess the trail of any projectiles. The map of the Ringstrasse bloomed into three dimensions and the trails of bullets traced themselves along holographic lines. _Those air towers are firing back!_

Tony was sure he had given a few Austrian soldiers the shock of their lives, and their lousy shooting was indicative of surprise or simply lackluster training. Unwilling to give up his moment of freedom, Tony dropped from the sky and landed in the midst of a dense group of trees. No more shots fired above his head, and the sounds of the city overwhelmed the pounding of Tony's heartbeat once again.

When he returned the suit to its container and emerged from the trees, Vasiliev had left a note behind him. Three words stood bold on the back of a creamy business card: _A done deal._

Tony took the card and crumpled it between his fingers. The thrill of the flight was beginning to wear off, and Vasiliev's words began to echo in his ears again. The Russian had humiliated him, treating Tony like a child. Like a fool. Tony was nobody's fool, certainly not some Russian cheese merchant's. His pulse throbbed against the thick paper balled in his fist.

If Vasiliev had planned to crush his spirit, he had failed. Tony had never been more determined about anything in his life. He would prove Vasiliev wrong. He wouldn't play along with the Russian's little game. Tony was not a child. With his wits and his suit and the world before him, Tony was untouchable.

Vasiliev was going to learn that the hard way.

 _(Russian spies, secret plots... What are you thoughts so far?)_


	26. Stab in the Back

_"Justice has nothing to do with victor nations_

 _and vanquished nations, but must be a moral standard that_

 _all the world's peoples can agree to."_

 _\- Hideki Tojo_

* * *

 _V-Mail; January 29, 1942_

Dear Steve,

I'm the luckiest man in the world, and I'm sure as hell not going to complain about it!

A transfer request was wired to the _North Carolina_ for a seaman with expertise on the 20s mounts to be sent back to the States for the commission of a new ship. The transfer's more of an extended shore leave, really, so I'll train some boots in the morning and have the afternoons all to myself in sunny San Francisco. So many seamen qualified for the transfer that they filled the mess hall. The married men were particularly anxious when the name was called.

Every eligible sailor dropped their name in a hat, and the boatswain's mate stirred them up for effect. There must have been a hundred names in that hat, maybe, more, and guess who got called? Your old buddy Clint Barton, that's who! I ship out the _SS Lurline,_ which used to be a ship for fancy folk who dared to traverse the high seas, so I'll be in the lap of luxury all my way back to the States.

An added bonus: the _SS Lurline_ does not have any 20-millimeter guns, so I'll be lounging around all the way back. My own little slice of heaven.

The married guys didn't take so kindly to my transfer, since they thought it was unfair a single guy was getting to head back. I say _tough luck!_

Your comic books, which the boys follow religiously whenever mail comes in, have your schedule in the back. I saw you're going to San Francisco as well. We should meet up and get a picture – they guys back on the ship won't believe it when I show them – and catch up sometime. Captain America and a dashing sailor strolling the streets of town should catch the eyes of some city girls, what do you think?

Things are quite boring back on the _North Carolina_ , so this leave is a welcome respite from endless training and kitchen duty and the same card games over and over again. A guy could pick up smoking and die from it before he even fired his gun at a real Japanese. You'd better make things interesting for me once I get back to America, or I'll be sorely disappointed. Wherever you go, an adventure seems to follow.

Wishing you all the best,

Barton

P.S. Sabin's ship sank in the Battle of Guadalcanal. I saw it go down myself. We _Reuben James_ boys are really thinning out, aren't we?

-o0o-

 _San Francisco, California; February 13, 1942_

Steve didn't have to go out of his way to make San Francisco interesting – the city did all the work for him.

The Californian streets were a whirlwind of activity and color. Brightly colored cars zoomed down horribly crooked lanes, tropical flowers dangled from windows, and the distinctive colors of uniforms stood out from the crowds of pastel dresses. His show sold out with visitors spilling into the streets, one of the biggest ones yet. Talbert had made him hoist a motorcycle with a few of the dancing girls on top of it while lights whirled and spun around the room, giving the feat a superhuman quality. The cheering didn't stop until a full hour after the curtain fell. Clint's white sailor's uniform stuck out in his seat on the front row, which Steve had personally secured for him, his telltale ironic smile grinning up at Steve as he continued the standing ovation.

Back in civilian clothes, however, 'Captain America' was just another guy on the street. Steve and Clint visited all the sights three times over, searched for the best bar in town (on Barton's request, not his personal favorite), and went to the movies every day. If they both wore their military uniforms, tickets and all the popcorn they could eat came free.

By all accounts Clint was doing well, his hair bleached and skin tanned from their daily deck training. They had long discussions into the night over soda pop and scotch about everything from daily life to the politics of war. It was during these late-night conversations that the sailor truly opened up to Steve about the trail of wreckage he felt he was leaving in his wake.

"I think of them every day," he admitted as he sipped his drink. "They were like brothers to me, and now they're gone. Life moves on, I guess, but sometimes I don't want to. Look at me, actin' like a kid and all. It's just... I hate the guys who killed them with all my soul, but I don't know if I can kill a man again."

Steve was impressed by Clint's composure and strength of character. His best friends had been killed when the _Reuben James_ went down, and his surviving buddy's ship had sunk before his own eyes. And here he stood, all smiles and jokes and his regular roughhousing self. How he could withstand such tragedy and still carry on was beyond Steve. Clint Barton had to be the strongest man he knew.

This morning wasn't dedicated to hitting the town, however. Steve's duty as the chief marketing tool for the war effort demanded that he attend an early meeting in the city hall between Secretary of State Cordell Hull and ambassador Admiral Nomura Kichisaburo. The two men had met in the previous two years discussing some hope for avoiding war, but nothing had come of their discussions. These talks were designed to bring up the idea of a peaceful settlement and avoid the capture of Japanese-captured islands, which would turn into bloodbaths for both sides.

Clint made one thing clear to Steve as they walked the sunny streets towards the city hall – the possibility to avoid further war was immense.

"The Japanese navy's already shot to shit," he informed Steve in his usual tactful manner, "After Midway and Guadalcanal all their best ships were sunk. Their soldiers are getting cut off from their supply lines as we advance, and bombs are falling like rain on our next targets courtesy of the flyboys. They've gotta know they can't win this war.

"Besides, I hear some of the stuff the Marines say when they hear word from their buddies who invade those islands. It's like another world in there, all jungle and Japanese troops who'll keep coming at you after you've put twenty bullets in 'em. Heard they're starving so they eat American troops for nourishment. It's unnatural, that's what." Clint shuddered. "If these guys can make some kind of deal, maybe a few less guys have to go to that green hell."

A local paper informed Steve on what he didn't know about Nomura: he was well-respected for trying to secure peace at all costs, even after war had been declared (indeed, he had delivered Japan's declaration of war himself.) He had been recently released from internment and was prepared to make a last-ditch effort for the benefit of both countries. The event caused quite a stir in San Francisco, and the city hall was packed with a mix of protesters and interested city-dwellers craning their necks to get a glimpse of the Japanese ambassador.

Steve had a pass for clearance, and he felt bad about leaving Clint at the gates, but the sailor assured him that he would be fine. "I'll get to hear the news as soon as it comes out! How bad can it be?" He assured Steve. "Go look tough and make them quiver in their boots."

Clint's last statement confirmed a small fear of Steve's as a uniformed soldier waved him through the doors – he didn't want to be used as a strong-arming tool, make to show off the best America could offer. The Secretary of State himself had asked for Steve to accompany him in his best dress uniform, and he would look a rather impressive sight before the Japanese. Steve was the collector of politics, he supposed, whose job it was to look tough and pressure his target into doing what he wanted. It wasn't a pleasant idea.

A single table sat at the center of the city hall's rotunda, around which a great number of politicians and soldiers were milling about. Japanese uniforms formed a block of white against one of the curving walls, standing as perfectly still as statues, while American soldiers talked among themselves and eyed their opponents with thinly veiled distrust. At the center of this group were the two leading figures of the morning: Nomura and Hull, exchanging a handshake and a familiar smile. When the two sat down the crowd dispersed to the sides of the room, taking their seats at a bank of chairs meant for observation. The Japanese sailors stood.

"I must first address a topic that has come to light with increasingly strong evidence as this unfortunate war progresses." Hull began, his voice clear in the near-silence of the rotunda. "The interrogation and torture techniques used by the Japanese army is in a direct violation of the Geneva Conventions, if our evidence is to be believed. Have you heard anything from your superiors of the matter?"

Nomura daubed at his forehead with a handkerchief before replying, his face a pleasant mask of composure. "I was quite sure you were going to ask that question, Secretary. To ease your worries, I have brought some American prisoners of war from Burma to demonstrate the effects of Japanese hospitality. I am sure their experience will be quite to your satisfaction." His hand rose in a sharp gesture to the rightmost sailor against the wall, who stepped away from the group and exited through one of the doors in the rotunda. Emerging soon afterward, he held the door open for five men in clean Japanese uniforms, unshaven but otherwise the image of perfect health and cleanliness.

When they raised their heads Steve's heart stopped. He couldn't breathe, the voices of the ambassador and the whispers of the military men behind him fading to a dull hum below the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Because standing before him on the floor of the rotunda, eyes downcast and unwilling to meet those of his Japanese captors, was James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve's mind fumbled for an explanation – had the _Repulse_ been sunk and he hadn't known? How could he not know that his best friend was in Japanese hands? His eyes sought Bucky's, but the latter refused to remove his gaze from his shoes, head hunched slightly. Nomura's voice snapped back into focus, drawing Steve's attention away from the POW's and back to the officials.

"... Captured in Burma and treated with the greatest hospitality. As you can see, they are clean and well-fed, yet still under Japanese control. They will not be bargained for, Secretary. Tell me, Airman Barnes, how has your treatment been in Burma?"

Bucky cleared his throat before he began, head drooping down. His voice seemed shattered to Steve, dull and resigned and lacking and of its characteristic charisma Steve had known all his life. The sound twisted his heart. "They treat us very well. No complaints can be given."

The presence of the prisoners caused quite a stir on the rotunda floor. Whispers spread like wildfire through the seated sections, with snippets of Japanese and a glut of English swearing reaching Steve's ears. His eyes were firmly fixed on Bucky, hands behind his back and eyes locked on the tile floor. Bucky had always been the one cocky enough to spit in the face of his enemy. What had gone wrong? _What did they do to him?_

"You know the Japanese army and navy better than anyone. Is there any possibility of settlement? Surely the navy knows it cannot continue a war in this manner." Hull's voice was almost contemptuous as he leaned forward towards the table.

"I know it, Secretary, but the military refuses to believe it. The ships and the sailors, they are _gyokusai_ – crushed jewels for the Emperor, infinite is his wisdom and grace. They have a mission to extend the great empire of Japan, and they are blind to their shortcomings."

"They, not you?" Hull crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

"I am a realist, Secretary. I understand our capabilities, which is why I am meeting with you today. Now, may we continue? Dismissed." Nomura gestured to the leading sailor, who led the POWs back through the door and out of sight.

"Excuse me," Steve whispered to the men next to him, leaping from his seat and rushing out of the stifling silence of the rotunda. Bucky was somewhere in the building, guarded by a few Japanese soldiers, and Steve _had_ to reach him.

A door creaked open down the hallway, the same ornate wooden carvings gracing its surface that had faced the interior of the rotunda, and a small squadron of Japanese sailors emerged. The five prisoners followed them, heads continually bowed as they shuffled forward after their captors. A derisive laugh sounded from the group as one of the sailors aimed a kick at the last POW, sending him staggering to the side. They mustn't have noticed Steve standing to the side – the hallway was otherwise deserted. When the politicians were out of sight their cruelty could again resurface.

Steve followed the group from a safe distance, trailing after them as they rounded the hallway about the rotunda and entered a small room marked with the placard of the Japanese flag and Nomura's name. The door thudded shut and Steve ran up next to it, pressing his body against the stone and leaning his ear toward the doorjamb.

Hushed Japanese voices bled through the crack between the door and the wall. Steve's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced any nerves aside and lashed out his leg in a kick that blew the door off its hinges. Before the soldiers could even turn to inspect the noise Steve was upon them.

The first turned too slowly, looking around to see Steve's forearm rise to meet his face. He was thrown backward by a forward jab and crumpled against the wall like a rag doll. The second and third soldiers shouted something in Japanese, drawing their rifles from their backs. Lunging forward, Steve grabbed the first rifle by the barrel and tightened his fist, feeling the metal crumple between his fingers. He wheeled the ruined gun above his head and brought it around into the temple of the second soldier, who fell to the ground with a groan. The third soldier fixed his bayonet and jabbed the spear towards Steve, who ducked and rolled underneath the flash of steel. Steve's ankles swept the soldier from his feet, and a well-placed punch knocked him out of action.

The fourth and fifth soldiers, to their credit, stood their ground. One pressed the end of his rifle against the forehead of one of the American POW's and babbled something in a foreign language. Steve didn't speak Japanese, but the frantic message was clear: _move and he dies._

Hands raised in the air, Steve studied the scenario before him. He had no weapons to fight the two armed soldiers with, and the lives of the POW's were on the line. If he wanted to act, he would have to act fast. The fourth Japanese soldier was barking out another order when Steve struck, springing forward and tackling the man to the ground. As he jumped his legs planted against the fifth soldier's chest, sending him careening backward. The rifle clattered to the ground, harmless.

Once they realized they had been liberated, the American POW's finished the job for him. The last two soldiers were unconscious before Steve could even get to his feet. The Americans looked around the ruined room, eyes wide and staring as they gaped at their savior. A shrill alarm spoiled the moment, however, and above the whines of the alert came the pounding of boots in the direction of the room. Someone had triggered the emergency system. Steve would have to get the POW's out before the Japanese reclaimed them.

"Come on!" He called, snatching the butt of the broken rifle and driving it through the glass of the window. The room was on the first story of the city hall, so it wouldn't be a long jump. Eyeing the prisoners, however, Steve couldn't be sure if their physical shape would permit a daring escape.

"You heard the man!" One of the prisoners called, drawing himself to his feet and running for the window. "Let's go!"

The hammering of footsteps pounded louder in Steve's ears, and he hurried the prisoners through the window. As they ran they tore off their Japanese uniforms and dispersed into the thick crowds around the building, which were growing more chaotic by the moment as alarms whooped over their murmurs. The last POW gripped Steve's arm and pulled him back from the window. His eyes were wild, his face harrowed and his twisted expression unfamiliar, but there was no doubt who was standing before Steve at the moment. Sunken eyes blinked in confusion as Bucky surveyed his liberator.

"No, it can't be... Steve?"

"In the flesh," Steve replied, "And you have to get out of here."

"I thought you were shorter."

"I joined the Army."

"Oh, so that explains it!" Bucky's fingers tightened on his sleeve. "Why are you doing this?"

Voices rang closer in the hallway – soon they would be at the ruined doorway. "Look, Buck, I'll explain later. If you don't want to end up in a Japanese prison camp, I'd recommend you get out of here _now!_ "

His head dipped up and down in a nod, and Bucky leaped through the window with Steve on his tail. Both dove into the cover of the crowd as angry voices clamored from the broken window, followed by sharp commands in Japanese. The soldiers who surrounded the gates now began to disperse into the crowd as well, making a beeline for the broken window. The howling alarm wailed against the ravenous whispers that spread through the crowd. As he reached the edge of the masses Steve couldn't help but release a long-held sigh of relief.

Bucky was safe.

-o0o-

He returned to Clint's hotel that night to find the sailor packing.

"You're leaving already? I thought your leave was for two weeks."

"I was. I'm going back." The bitter reply was a shock, and Steve leaned his shoulder on the door jamb.

"What's going on?"

Clint tilted his head toward the small table, where a newspaper's title page screamed the headline _AMERICAN POW'S RESCUED FROM CITY HALL: PEACE TALKS END IN FURY._ Reaching for the paper, Steve thumbed through the article with shock. All the excitement and adrenaline of the morning escape left his body in an instant, replaced with the general feeling of being sucker-punched in the gut.

"This says –"

"Nomura ended the discussion. The Japanese government issued a decree affirming the state of war with the United States. No more peace talks. No more hope for a settlement. It's over." Clint shook his head, eyes flashing with contempt.

"And this is my fault somehow?"

"Do you think I'm a fuckin' idiot? Jesus Christ, Rogers, who else do you know who would bust into a room full of Japanese soldiers, steal their prisoners of war and escape?"

Steve shook his head, the first clutches of fear gripping his stomach. "You know that's not what I meant..."

A derisive snort followed as Clint stuffed his belongings into his sea bag, back still turned to Steve. Anger tugged at Steve's mind, but he held his tongue as he watched the sailor pull the last of his things into his luggage.

"I don't understand why you're angry. I rescued those men! You should have seen them – it's like they weren't even people anymore, all skin and bones. They would have died without me!"

"They haven't recovered the POW's yet, but the Japanese government doesn't care so much about that. For every one of the men that fled today, Japan has vowed to send a hundred thousand more back to the States in caskets." Clint wheeled on Steve, rage burning from every ounce of his being. Fists clenched, eyes wild, he brandished a finger at Steve as if it were a weapon. "You don't get it, do you? No more peace talks! You know how many soldiers you've just sentenced to death? You know how many boys you're sending off to their graves, just because you couldn't resist playing the hero?"

"I was not playing the hero!" Steve's jaw slackened with shock, but Clint wasn't done with his tirade. He paced to the side, drawing a hand through his hair and releasing a sarcastic laugh.

"We've got Marines on board, and they know what goes on on those islands. The war seems all nice and cozy from your high horse, _Captain America,_ but they know what it feels like to walk across a field of bodies that have been carved up for Japanese supper. They know what it's like to crawl over beaches soaked in the blood of their best friends. They know what it's like to have everyone they know and love stripped away from them one at a time, and you can't dupe yourself into thinking it will be all right for a _second,_ because then another one's gone. _Don't you get that?_ " He roared, and Steve stepped back with his hands raised in defense.

"You care more about your friends than the good of the war. Who's it gonna be next? Hell, what if it's me? How many more have to die, Steve? How much blood is on your hands?"

Steve's hands were trembling, so he forced them into his pockets. "Clint, I –"

"Get out of here, Rogers. I never want to see your face again as long as I live." Clint seethed, and Steve knew in that moment he meant it.

 _Boots - Sailors in training_

 _(I appreciate all of your feedback? What do you think about this new twist?)_


	27. Awakening

_"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat."_

 _\- Winston Churchill_

* * *

 _Washington, D.C.; February 15, 1943_

"I gave you a chance, Rogers. I put my neck on the line for you, and I get this in return?" Colonel Philips bawled, slapping a thick file on his desk with enough force to make Steve flinch.

"I am sorry, sir..."

"I'll tell you where you can put your apologies! Shove 'em right back up your ass! What do you have to say for yourself, son?" Steely eyes bore into Steve's and he lowered his gaze to his shoes.

"No excuse, sir. May I submit myself for disciplinary action?"

"You can sit your ass down in that chair, I'll tell you what!" Philips huffed, and Steve dropped himself into his seat before the man could vent some more. A stiff pause crackled with tension, and he kept his gaze firmly fixed on his uniform shoes. _If he even would be allowed to wear a uniform after this mess._ The fabric itched against his skin as if it were affirming he didn't deserve to wear the military clothes.

"Howard and some of his army buddies approached me about the German scientist and his plans for the super-soldier. I thought sure, what the hell, we're going to need all we can get to fight the Krauts and the Japs. I asked you to do _one thing_ Rogers – sell war bonds, do your duty for America. And what does this freedom get me in return? A kick in the goddamn teeth!"

Steve's head lowered. He couldn't bring himself to speak. "The press doesn't know it's you who stole those soldiers, but Army command does. They're angry at me for letting you loose. Can I blame them?"

"No, sir."

"No, sir is right!" Philips slammed his fist against the desk, knocking a mug off of his desk. The porcelain shattered, casting sharp shards across the office floor. The colonel didn't even flinch. "You've reached the end of your tether, Rogers. I have half the mind to disband you from the Army right now."

Steve's heart sank to his shoes. Being Captain America had fulfilled his dream of serving his country, and that was all going to be taken away from him in an instant. A spark of indignation drew his mind away from his dire predicament – hadn't he done something right? A blind man could have seen those soldiers weren't being treated as well as the Japanese soldiers had forced them to claim. Hadn't he done them a small service by saving them? Did no one understand that?

"You're lucky the soldiers all turned themselves in. They're in an Army hospital in New York at the moment, recuperating from their injuries." Philips stood and strode to the window, watching Steve from the corner of his eye. "Look, son, I understand your mentality. We all knew what was going on in Japan, but you can't strong-arm your buddies out of a diplomatic meeting because you were friends from high school! That's not how international politics work, especially not in wartime."

"There's no hope for a settlement?" Steve murmured, unwilling to meet the colonel's sharp eyes.

"Nomura was furious when he found out what happened, of course. Japan is as determined as ever to grind the United States under its boot." Philips scowled, clasping his hands behind his back.

"The papers say I condemned all those boys to death. That now Japan will show no mercy because I violated their honor."

Philips turned to him. There was no compassion or warmth in his eyes, but an inkling of understanding. "They're probably right. I'm not going to soothe your feelings, son. The next question is, what is there to be done about you?"

"Me?" Steve's mood brightened ever so slightly – maybe he wasn't being thrown out of the Army after all!

"Did I stutter? Yes, you. You're on probation, I should let you know. I'll strike a deal with you, _Captain America._ We'll keep your pal Barnes under our protection, and you'll go overseas to do your job."

Steve's eyes widened as the possibilities ran through his mind. Would they parachute him into Berlin as some form of punishment? Would he tour England like he did in the States? Was he joining the ranks of the everyday soldier? Neither sounded particularly appealing.

"Our boys just took a real licking at Kasserine Pass, and they could use a morale boost. Pack your things, Rogers, you're going to Tunisia."

-o0o-

 _Kasserine Pass, Tunisia;_ _February 25, 1943_

"How many of you want to help me sock old Adolph in the jaw?"

A breath of muggy wind was the only noise that sounded above the desert sands of Tunisia. The Dorsal Mountains formed a solid and taunting backdrop to the stage set up for Steve's performance purposes, mocking the soldiers who crowded in front of the wooden structure as a sign of their own insignificance. Less than a week ago American soldiers had been put to the test in their first major confrontation in the war, and less than a week ago they were slaughtered.

First Battalion, 26th Regimental Combat team sat in bloody and torn uniforms at the front of the state, with the 19th Combat Engineer Regiment behind them. Field artillery and Ranger battalions were mixed in among the rest of the troops, with too few soldiers left to form a seating area. The Army commanders stationed in Djebel el Hamra had thought Steve's intervention would bring a much-needed lift in the soldiers' morale. Looking at the deadened eyes staring up at him, Steve knew they couldn't be more wrong.

He fixed a fake smile on his face and looked out over the sea of dusty green. White bandages stood out against the faded khaki of anonymity. Even the grievously wounded couldn't all be cared for in hospitals, so the stretchers were positioned to the sides of the crowd. Those who could propped themselves up on their elbows to watch; those who couldn't stared at the overcast sky with slackened expressions.

Steve stood with his arms akimbo, looking out over the sea of uniforms and blood as the desert sand choked his throat. What could he possibly say to the men who had lost over six thousand of their own?

"All right, all right. You, the fighting men of America, have fortuitously defended this country – nigh, the world – from the threat of Fascism!""Yeah, and look what it did to us!" A heckler called back, and jeering cheers followed his exclamation. Steve's smile wavered – were they backing the cynical soldier instead of Captain America? A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he felt the unpleasantness grow as he strode across the stage. "I'm going to need a volunteer."

"Yeah, and look what we got in return!" A heckler called back, and jeering cheers followed his exclamation. Steve's smile wavered – were they backing the cynical soldier instead of Captain America? A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he felt the unpleasantness grow as he strode across the stage. "I'm going to need a volunteer."

"I already volunteered! How do you think I got here?" The same soldier cried, and first punched into the air to stir the heckler on. The hollering drowned out Steve's attempts to draw the crowd back under control. The sun beat down on his shoulders, making him sweat under his uniform, and the stench of decay was beginning to rise in the air and clog Steve's nostrils. The sensation was profoundly sickening.

"Listen, fellas," Steve began, but even the microphone in front of him couldn't overpower the volume of the taunting that struck at him from all sides. Whenever he opened his mouth a thousand more voices took his place until the mass of soldiers formed one great cry of derisive hatred. Steve's shoulder's slumped, his breath choked as the reek of the dead brought bile burning in his throat. Someone threw a rock that glanced off his cheek, and the rest of the soldiers took up the same actions.

 _They're stoning me,_ Steve thought as shock pulsed through his veins, and he ran from the stage before the barrage could continue. A few frantic-looking girls in Captain America showgirl getup darted up to the stage after him, and the cheers were nearly deafening.

Forcing his way past a traumatized Talbert, Steve found the nearest trash can and emptied his stomach. He could practically taste the rotting stink that hung over the base, and the mutilated crowds before him hadn't helped. He settled down on the back supports of the stage, where the cheers from the soldiers applauding the girls were only slightly muffled, and he pulled out his notebook from his back pocket. He leafed through the sketches for a moment, smiling at the drawings of planes he hoped to fly and guns he hoped to fire, his tiny diary of war. Look what war had done to him!

His pencil flew across the paper, sketching the performing monkey he knew he was. A shield hung from the faintly drawn arm, an audience with horse blinders cheering on with willful ignorance. He was so occupied by his work he didn't notice the familiar figure sit beside him.

"Steve?"

Jumping slightly, Steve turned to see Peggy Carter sitting beside him. Her once-pristine was tarnished with dirt and sand, and a streak of blood was smeared across her cheek, but she looked unhurt. Her eyes were a darker brown than usual, weighed down with the reality of the cost which remnants Steve had experienced on stage. Reflected in her irises was a profound sadness and anger, unlike he had ever seen in her before.

"Agent. I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming."

"Please, don't apologize. I've had enough of apologies." Her head hung chin to chest as she released a slow breath. "'Dear sir or madam, we regret to inform you that your son has been killed in noble combat against the enemy...' I've trained too many men and seen too few of them come back."

"I understand, ma'am."

"No, you don't." she hissed. "I have to live with his every second of my life. I trained these men for months, and now I have to wonder if there was some lesson I neglected, something I didn't do right that would have saved their lives."

Steve turned away, averting his gaze from Carter's burning stare. She sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the conversation. "I guess I wasn't done with apologies yet. I'm sorry, Steve. This must be hard for you."

 _Hard?_ Steve thought, hardly able to keep his scoff contained. He had condemned legions of Marines to death, alienated or lost his only friends, and had deluded himself into thinking that he was doing something for the war effort. This was the _real_ war, not the stuff that he had preached back in the States. It was ugly, brutal, and all too real. How could he have been so ignorant?

"My job was to defend the American people. I was Captain America. I was the man who helped the little guy, who defended our country and preached to bring even more boys into this mess. And look what I've done! I brought the full wrath of Japan upon our necks and I've earned the hatred of every enlisted man. If I'm not Captain America then who am I, Agent Carter?

"If I can't do my job, the _one thing_ I can do to contribute to this blasted war, then what is my purpose?" Steve pressed his palms against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut against the blood and the guts and the tears that drowned the African sands beneath his feet. Hopelessness and despair gripped his chest and squeezed with all its might, and though Steve hated himself for it, he couldn't hold back a single tear that traced a lonesome path down his cheek.

A failed experiment. That was all he was, and the soldiers' jeers were only a small testament to the utter uselessness of Steve Rogers.

Turning to face her, Steve took Carter's hand in his on an impulse and held onto it tight. "Please, ma'am. I only ever wanted to help my country. There must be something I can do that's not..."

Carter's expression was unreadable, a mask of muted anguish and eyes that were already so far away from the showboy sitting at her feet. Her mind was on other things. _Stupid of me to think she cared,_ Steve though with a note of dejection, looking back to his sketches. The pencil strokes were already smudged. _She's got bigger things to worry about. The world doesn't revolve around you,_ Captain.

"Don't you worry, Rogers. Your time will come," Carter replied absently, squeezing his shoulder and hurrying off to her next destination. A path of sand kicked up in the wake of her shoes, leaving Steve totally and utterly alone in the pounding heat of the African desert. As the cheers of the soldiers mounted again and the wind kicked spurs of sand across the dunes, the sounds mingled into a harmony of bitter defeat.


	28. The New Deal

_"All applicable investigative techniques will be used."_

 _\- Waffen SS Manual, on 'Main Collection Area for Prisoners'_

* * *

 _Berlin, Germany; April 3, 1943_

Of all the things that accompanied a visit to Berlin, being arrested upon arrival was a new one. Tony almost enjoyed the experience, with black-uniformed officers chasing after him through the terminals of Tempelhof, shouting various phrases in German.

The ride to _Kriminalpolizei_ headquarters was less entertaining. A drab gray Volkswagen wove through the evening traffic of Berlin, while the droning voice of a monotonous spokesman poured through the radio. The two officers sat in the front seats, twiddling with the dials to find a station they wanted. They appeared polar opposites of each other, one dark and swarthy, the other quite fair. Introducing themselves as Schwarz and Roth, they made their intentions clear during the drive.

"Anthony Stark, you are under arrest by the German government for suspicion of treasonous activities regarding the Reich," Roth began, sounding just as bored as the radio man. _He probably recites this same spiel a thousand times a day to the other dissidents he has to mop up_ , Tony thought. _Hell, I would be bored too._

"But I'm not even a citizen of the Reich! How can I be accused of treason if I'm a foreigner? Doesn't the Gestapo handle this sort of thing?"

Schwarz and Roth exchanged a knowing glance, a shiver of fear passing through the cabin of the car. "If you knew what the Gestapo does during interrogations you wouldn't be asking for them, _dummkopf._ You're lucky we got to you first before Himmler's boys did."

"Lucky, huh? That's ironic, seeing as I'm the one in handcuffs." Tony was the one truly being ironic in the moment, as he had already locked and unlocked the handcuffs three times over on their drive. The Kripo officers hadn't noticed yet.

Roth turned in his seat, looking back at Tony with an icy blue gaze. "I said it before and I'll say it again – you're lucky you got Kripo. We don't believe in Gestapo cruelty."

A sharp snort sounded from the driver's seat. "Ridiculous. I went through full training in forensic science, and the Gestapo thinks they can pull the truth out of their victims as easily as they can pull out fingernails. We believe in science and evidence to prove guilt." Schwarz continued with conviction, jutting his chin up as if daring Tony to challenge him.

"There are some things more important than interrogations, you know," Roth added. Tony realized he was beginning to like these two officers, even if they were arresting him.

Kripo offices were holed up in the Reich Security Main Office on the Prinz-Albrech-Strasse, an odd mix of jutting architecture and careful refinery that disguised the brutality hidden by the stone walls. Schwarz pulled up to the sidewalk, drawing the attention of a few SS officers lingering around the doorway on a smoke break. Roth stepped out of the car, opening the back door and leading Tony from the Volkswagen to the sweeping archway of a door. Twin flags, dyed a deep black emblazoned with the double lightning bolts of the SS, rippled in the wind as Tony was led under the arch into the building.

Rounded, vaulted architecture supported elegantly sloped windows. The dull gray sunlight cast long shadows across the spartan interior of the hall. Against the wall a bust of Adolph Hitler sneered down at the mere mortals who scurried beneath his pedestal, eyes blazing beneath a strong furrowed brow. Roth's hand tightened on Tony's elbow and led him down a sweeping staircase, then into a room the size of a broom closet.

Tony's heart leaped into his throat – this was the part in movies where the bad guys took the hero to the basement to dispose of him. _Stupid thought,_ he chided himself. The Germans weren't the bad guys, as much as the ridiculous American propaganda tried to force him to believe. Instead of bringing a gun to his neck, Schwarz wrapped a black blindfold across his eyes.

"Sorry for the inconvenience. We expect to let you go after this, so we can't have you picking up on anything on your walk around. You must understand, it's only procedure." Tony could hardly believe his ears. The Kripo officer sounded apologetic about the incident.

Maybe all the wartime propaganda was beginning to affect him. A sympathetic German officer in the middle of Gestapo headquarters? Unheard of on American silver screens. This was the up-close and personal investigation Tony specialized in. This was where the truth lay.

Try as he might, Tony was unable to keep his bearings as he was paraded up and down staircases, turned about left and right down sloping hallways. He tripped over doorways and even took a brief ride in an elevator before his blindfold was loosed in front of a small door. All vestiges of the bright natural lighting had vanished, replaced by tinny lightbulbs hanging behind panes of glass set deep in the concrete ceiling. The odor of damp and mildew abounded.

"Well, in you get." Schwarz nudged him forward, and Tony was led into the cramped quarters. New metal furniture stood as the only decoration in the concrete cell, save the portrait of the Fuhrer adorning the far wall. Tony took the lone seat on the left side of the table, and when he looked above the Kripo officers' heads he could see old Adolph glowering down at him.

The Germans didn't bother to handcuff or detain him as they pulled a file folder onto the desk. Schwarz began to flip through a stack of photographs, which Tony recognized even from upside down: he and Vasiliev's meeting on the Ringstrasse, blueprints upon blueprints, and color photographs that nearly stopped his heart as his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.

Each glossy print displayed his designs in action. The massive rail gun swiveling on its tracks, smoke belching from its barrel as long as a football field. Tanks roaring across French plains, disguised in Norman bocage. Artillery pieces he had crafted so tenderly by hand, the wheeling forms of jet-powered fighter aircraft looping easily above testing sites. He could hardly believe the pictures before them.

"Your handiwork. And your payment, in American dollars." A suitcase materialized on the table, and Tony reached forward to undo the clasps. Stacks of neat green bills stared back up at him, more money than he had ever seen in his entire life. _And it's all mine._

"You must excuse the arrest, Mr. Stark. The Fuhrer insists on protecting his best assets, and we had to keep up appearances in case any of our enemies were tracking your movements."

"You're _paying me_?" Tony spluttered, and Roth's brow creased with confusion.

"But of course. Payment for your plans and a little more, according to the generosity of the Fuhrer."

Tony's mind was reeling as he placed the briefcase stuffed with cash on the ground with trembling hands. "The Fuhrer's seen my designs?"

Schwarz laughed, pushing the photographs forward for Tony to see. "Seen them? He approved them himself! Our leader believes that bigger is better, my friend, and you certainly brought him _bigger_. Did you not expect to be compensated for your work for the Reich?"

Shaking his head slowly, Tony lifted the first of the photographs to eye level. Light glanced off of the gleaming paper, on which the image of a sleek plane figure zoomed above the photographer's vantage point. The shape of the aircraft was blurred from its speed, but the position of underwing rockets told Tony it was one of his jet engines put into practice.

"I didn't even know you were using them. All the secrecy..."

"Germany's position in global politics is tense at the moment," Schwarz admitted, his dark features twisting in a grimace. "We had to protect our interests and your reputation. If it were known that the Reich was buying top-notch war materiel from an American scientist, what would happen to you? You'd hang for treason! The Fuhrer did not want to endanger the greatest mind of our generation with such arrogance."

 _Germany protecting me? The greatest mind of a generation?_ Tony couldn't believe what he was hearing. All of his dreams had fallen into place at once. The world's leading military power was kissing his boots, his designs were fulfilling their purposes on the fields of war, and he had the cash to buy his own country if he wanted to. Luxembourg was nice in the summertime...

An inkling of doubt crept at the edge of his mind as his eyes drifted back to the pictures of him and Vasiliev. "Gentlemen, this is all very humbling and overwhelming. I'm sure you know –"

"That you have been dealing in similar transactions with the Russians?" Schwarz crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, unfazed. "We know. The Fuhrer is prepared to turn a blind eye to this issue."

"He is? I mean, er, excellent. I'm glad to hear that." Tony forced his relief from his voice.

Roth nodded, flattening his hands against the table as he stood. "Indeed. The Fuhrer has seen your designs, and he was very impressed. We bought many of them, as you can tell from your compensation, and they have wreaked havoc on the Eastern Front."

"What my partner means to say is, our glorious Fuhrer wants more. Bigger, better, more improvement in our current makes and models. Tanks are pouring from every road in that godforsaken communist wasteland, and the Luftwaffe is struggling to establish air superiority. If ever there was a moment to overcome the Soviet stronghold, the time is now."

"The Reich needs Stark technology. The Fuhrer is willing to overlook your previous misdeeds if you will aid us in our time of struggle." Roth bowed his head, and Tony's eyes nearly popped from their sockets with shock. _Adolph Hilter, the leader of the German Reich and the almighty Fuhrer, is_ begging _me to work for him?_

"What about Vasiliev? Won't he know I've started selling to you as well?"

"From the moment you stepped into Tempelhof there's been a SS guard on your tail. He is more than equipped to defend you from any threats against your life. I'm sure your Russian contact is too embroiled in the fight on his doorstep to worry about a rogue radical." Schwarz chuckled, but Tony wasn't so sure. He had traced the Russian's handiwork through a dozen countries, and working for the Germans would almost certainly put Tony on his blacklist.

"And if I refuse?"

Roth and Schwarz's eyes narrowed slightly, but they maintained their cool demeanor as the former began to sweep the multitude of pictures back into his folder. "You keep the money, of course, with a sizable stipend per units of production for your services. After this our contract ends. No more production, no new sales, no new designs."

Mulling this over for a moment, Tony weighed his options. He hadn't seen a kopeck from Vasiliev's deal months ago, and he had no proof the Russians had even utilized his technology in battle. The Soviets had been his only option – Vasiliev had been quick to inform him of this – so he had taken up the deal. How could he have been so blind to Germany's extended hand? The clear answer was to agree with these Kripo officers. Wasn't it?

Russia reminded him of his position back in the States. Manipulated, useless, all freedom stripped from him. This deal would be a breath of fresh air, to create his wildest dreams with the backing of arguably the strongest nation in modern times. What could go wrong?

There was one thing Vasiliev had that these Kripo agents didn't: the threat of violence. If he turned on Vasiliev, no SS officer would be able to save him. The Russian was too smart for that. Tony would be on his own in a cat-eat-mouse world Vasilev had far more experience in. Could he make it?

Tony was smart, but was he _that_ smart?

"Well? Have you made a decision?" Roth pressed, and Tony held up a hand to silence him.

His life hanging in the balance, the promise of fame and success just around the corner. How could he possibly choose?

The world tumbled from his mouth with heavy finality, dead weight against his chest. "I'm in."

 _(I had to look up the bona fide Gestapo manual for this chapter, so if you're enjoying my efforts so far feel free to drop a review!)_


	29. First Blood

_"History knows no greater display of courage_

 _than that shown by the people of the Soviet Union."  
_

 _\- Henry L. Stimson, U.S. Secretary of War_

* * *

 _Berlin, Germany; May 9, 1943_

Vasiliev's first mistake was leaving the door open.

Upon arriving, the Russian had most likely noticed the papers and files strewn across the vintage Chippendale furniture, each document connecting to another one of his crimes. Tony had studied Vasiliev incessantly for the past two weeks. It took him a night to master nuclear physics, so by the time Tony happened upon his hotel room door yawning wide open, he could have masqueraded as Vasiliev and played the role to perfection.

He delved into every quirk, every personality trait. Interviews, phone calls, records upon records. Documents from Japan and Argentina, each stamped with the familiar name of Vasiliev or one of his many aliases, which Tony had committed to memory in minutes. Every scrap of information he could muster on the Russian was piled up on the hotel furniture.

 _To defeat one's enemy one must know him._ Tony thought this seemed like a generally sound rule of thumb, so he had spent every spare minute poring over classified documents and programming Jarvis to tap into outbound Russian radio feeds. The case file of Vasiliev was massive, Tony's confidence even more so. The mystery assassin was more familiar to Tony than his own father, and he was confident he could strike the Russian down during their next encounter.

Tony had dived into every murder case file with vigor. Vasiliev's _modus operendi_ was devastatingly simple: a blade to the heart, a gunshot fired at point-blank, always in close combat and always instantly fatal. In typical Russian fashion, Vasiliev didn't beat around the bush. He struck for the heart. And he never missed.

As much as he hated to admit it, Tony saw some of himself in the Russian assassin. Both were geniuses in their own craft, tossed around by their governments and thrown by the wayside. Vasiliev had made a mockery of Tony's weakness, and Tony had learned from his mistakes. He had swallowed his pride for the past two weeks while learning how to inflame his enemy's. _My, how the tables have turned._

So when Tony saw the door to his hotel room open he was ready. Gathering his files to his chest, he pressed his shoulder against the door to fully open it and peered into the semi-darkness. Seams of light drifted through breaks in the shuttered windows, mapping a pattern of lines against the wallpaper to Tony's right.

His fingers flexed at his side, activating the four sensors implanted between his knuckles. The small devices had stung like hell when he put them in, but they would serve their purpose when Vasiliev showed himself. Another admittance of inferiority Tony had had to shoulder was his lesser strength compared to the assassin. The Russian made a name for himself through his combat skills and excellence in the art of killing. Tony had robots for that sort of thing. Not exactly an even fight.

The different parts of his suit were hidden in clever nooks and crannies throughout the hotel room. The hands were stowed in the chandelier in the entrance hall danging above Tony's head. He called one down with the tug of his right fist, and the hiss of fuel ignited in the heavy silence. Metal clasped onto his fingers, dancing over his knuckles before folding outward across his palm. The interlocking parts snapped together in oiled synchronicity, fitting Tony's hand like a glove. The thruster warmed against his palm, a flicker of comfort in the darkness and fear that surrounded him.

Tony had read all of Vasiliev's case files, and never had his victim emerged alive.

 _I've been the first to do a lot of things,_ he reassured himself with a smirk. _Let's set another record today._

Leaning onto a rickety floorboard, Tony activated a pressure panel he had installed days ago that swiveled the floor away and brought the calf-high boot of the suit spiraling up to activation. The frame of the boot snapped evenly around his dress shoes, tracing the leather shape with its flexible aluminum structure. Segments of the upper portion of the boot spread from the twin support struts, wrinkling his freshly pressed pant leg.

"You'd better pay for my dry cleaning after this," Tony called, and a light on the coffee table snapped on in response. Vasiliev sat on the couch with legs crossed, leafing through one of the multitude of files available like he was reading the _Saturday Evening Post._

"Very interesting. You've been doing your homework, like the proper schoolboy you are." The Russian smiled, tipping the file in Tony's direction like a toast. The insult was dismissed before Tony could even process its sting. _Trying to nail me for my ego again? How stupid do you think I am?_

"Let us get down to business, then. You are dealing with the Nazis now. My contacts have problems with such an arrangement."

"The _Germans,_ " Tony corrected, "And I'm a free radical. I can deal with whoever I want, no matter how badly your feelings get hurt."

Vasiliev's expression darkened. Tony realized he was about to stop playing with his food and go for the first strike. His eyes glanced across the table, which was a hopelessly disorganized explosion of paper that could easily conceal a weapon. Why didn't he think of that before?

 _Can't change that now. Stay on your toes, stay ahead of him!_

"I made a deal with you, Stark. I hiked up the price not because I wanted to swindle my contacts, but because I felt sorry for you. You were like a little lost puppy, about to be eaten alive by the capitalist swines they call the Nazis and the Japanese. And then you go back on our mutual contract?

"Your weapons have wreaked havoc on Russian towns. My fellow comrades have been slaughtered by your mechanical monstrosities while the Russian government lines your pockets with American dollars. This cannot continue."

"Oh, really? How so? I haven't seen a penny." Tony pressed his shoulder against the doorframe leading into the living room, concealing his armored hand behind his back and his boot behind his other leg. The darkness that had shrouded Vasiliev was now doing him the real favors.

"You will default on your connections with the Nazis and continue to service the Soviet Union, or _you_ will not continue. Do I make myself clear?"

Shaking his head, Tony managed a solid impression of a confident laugh. "The Germans are paying me more. They're not blackmailing me into forking over my life's work, and they're actually using my designs. Can't say the same for you, compadre. Tell me again why I should stop dealing with them?"

Tony's eyes followed the trail of the knife from Vasiliev's sleeve to its wobbling position buried hilt-deep in the doorjamb beside him. The blade slammed into the wood and hung there, trembling, with the sharp end pressed against the skin of his neck. A prickling pain raced across his throat, and a thin trail of blood dripped onto his collar. "That was a warning. My next strike won't be off target."

Cameras positioned in the corners of the room had traced the knife's path, analyzing the Russian's pattern of motion and style to add to the algorithm Tony had coded into the suit's self-defense program. Jarvis' signal, a slight buzzing against Tony's wrist, indicated that the motion had been added to the database. Once he had Vasiliev's fighting style mapped, Tony would be unstoppable. If he lived long enough to find out, that was.

"I'm sorry, Vasiliev, but the Germans do better business, but you wouldn't know about _business,_ would you?" Tony spat, grin widening as Vasiliev's eyebrows drew closer. "Yeah, I know you hate having to work under those government buffoons. You're used to bullying people to get what you want, and now you can't throw your weight around. Joke's on you, because that's how I work too, and I can do whatever the hell I want. Does it burn?"

"You shut your mouth before I cut your tongue out," Vasiliev growled, rising to his feet in a single lithe motion. A second blade slid into his palm, and he fingered the weapon with practiced confidence. Little did he know that Tony was just as well-equipped.

The blade sliced through the air, a sliver of silver dancing through the slats of light on its deadly arc toward Tony's chest, but his hand leaped up to catch the knife in midair. His metal-sheathed fight tightened, crumpling the steel between his fingers, and he released his fist to drop the useless hunk of metal to the tastefully patterned carpet. Vasiliev's eyes widened for a moment, exposing his emotions for the briefest of seconds before his eyes hardened.

"So, I finally get a real demonstration. Come out and play, little mouse."

Tony lunged forward and kicked his booted foot down on the coffee table, firing the guidance thrusters in reverse to give him extra power. The table snapped up and clipped Vasiliev on the chin, forcing him back onto the couch as he clutched his bruised jaw. The Russian recovered more quickly than Tony had expected, pivoting and scissoring a leg out in a kick. Tony's knee buckled as the boot of Vasiliev's shoe punched his leg forward, and another kick to his head sent him sprawling against the decorative china cabinet. Shards of plates and cups rained down on his shoulders, and Tony shook his head in an attempt to get his eyes to focus. The hotel room spun in lazy circles around him, swimming and wavering before his clouded mind.

"I expected more from you! Tony Stark, armed with his most fabulous weaponry, taken down by a single kick!" Vasiliev taunted, but Tony tuned out his jabs and leaped to his feet. He clenched his left fist, sending the second metal glove flying in from the entryway. The cool metal surrounded his hand in moments, and the Russian eyed the new arrival with admiration. "You really would have done so well with me, young Stark."

Long legs waltzed over the ruined coffee table, but Tony was ready when Vasiliev's punch came like a freight train for his eye. His forearms crossed, blocking the oncoming fist with both guarded hands, and Vasiliev howled with pain as each of his knuckles split along the bone. Tony kicked out with his unguarded foot, which the Russian deftly caught with his uninjured hand. He yanked upward on Tony's ankle, flipping him over his shoulder and smashing him down with his face pressed into the carpet. The paintings on the wall trembled from the impact.

"I'm gonna have to explain this to housekeeping," Tony groaned, forcing himself up on his elbows. Behind him Vasiliev shook out his hand, blood streaming down his wrist and caking his sleeve. His scarlet fingers reached into his jacket, pulling out the sleek black handle of a switchblade.

Spinning on his knee, Tony turned and stood. He flexed his index finger, and the shoulder piece from the suit disengaged from its position on top of the armoire and snapped into position. The metal extended down over part of his arm, and not a moment too soon. Vasiliev's switchblade glanced off of the metal guarding, a strategic jab toward his chest that Tony deflected by thrusting his shoulder forward and turning into the face of the attack. Tony lifted his leg and fired his thruster, scorching the length of Vasiliev's leg before kicking him in the stomach.

To his credit, the Russian merely staggered away. His arms hung loose at his sides but his body was coiled like a spring, eyes flickering around the room to assess every aspect of the fight. Tony's programming was coming in handy, as was his research – Vasiliev hadn't done anything other than what Tony had expected him to.

"You are deluding yourself if you think you can win this fight." Vasiliev scoffed, feigning right and forcing his blade where Tony's unprotected body had stood moments ago. Tony took to the air, launching all of his thrusters and soaring above the low blow.

"Really? And to think I was doing pretty well." Tony beamed, his head grazing the ceiling. Leaping up on one foot, Vasiliev scissored his other leg around in a lightning-quick blow that Tony fully anticipated, bringing his arms down over the extended limb as he somersaulted over the Russian's body. Twisting away, Vasiliev managed to avoid the blow and planted his heel into Tony's back, sending him crashing into the ruins of the china cabinet again. Fragments of glass pressed into his shoulders and chest, drawing pinpricks of blood that bloomed across his dress shirt when he wheeled to face the assassin again.

Tony ducked beneath a high kick and fired his left-hand thruster into Vasiliev's chest, flipping the man back into the entryway of the hall. He called the right shoulder piece and the right side of the shield's chestplate from their places in hiding in the dresser, the snug-fitting metal pressing uncomfortably against his bleeding wounds, but he pressed forward and leveled his arm at Vasiliev to fire another shot. The Russian reacted too quickly for the wounds he had incurred to allow, lunging beneath Tony's outstretched hand and forcing his fist into Tony's unprotected side with three unforgiving jabs. Tony heard something snap as a dizzying wave of pain rushed over him and spun him senseless, the suit drifting to the side as its pilot fought for consciousness. A leering smile wavered before his face, and Tony's left foot thruster sputtered out. He landed on the couch as the right thruster gave a shudder of defeat, arms slumped motionless to the side as fiery agony ravaged his body.

"Did you really think it wouldn't end this way? I was going to kill you regardless. It was only a matter of when. I expected the boy genius to put, as you Americans say it, two and two together. It didn't tip you off when an assassin officiated the exchange?"

Tony's woozy mind could hardly focus on the words. Vasiliev was panting, his labored breaths rasping in the silence the pause in the fight had wrought. _Some sort of savage pleasure before I die in disgrace._

"Then again, this is the child who travels the world with murderers. What was I to expect?"

"What are you talking about?" Tony groaned, his head lolling back. A red fog had crept across his vision, and something warm and damp was dripping into his eyes. He would raise a hand to wipe it away, but the slightest motion set his broken body on fire.

"You didn't know?" Vasiliev snickered. He hobbled forward, favoring the leg Tony hadn't charred with his thrusters. "I would advise you to take a closer look at your friends, young Stark. They aren't who they appear to be."

"I thought you were going to kill me. You chicken or something?"

Dipping his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, Vasiliev drew a snub-nosed pistol and pointed the barrel at Tony's chest. His grip was firm despite his wounds, and the world seemed to bend and stretch around the dark hole of the barrel. "Not _chicken_ , boy. Just waiting for the right opportunity."

"Yeah, me too," Tony growled, and he pulled both of his fists back, the gesture to call all of his gear at once. The hotel room was filled with a hellacious buzzing of machinery as an arm girder rocketed over Vasiliev's shoulder. The left chestplate struck the Russian in the back, forcing him to stumble forward. Tony dragged his arm to the side to guide the heaviest instrument, the thigh guard, into the back of Vasiliev's head.

The Russian crumpled over the coffee table with a wet crunch, his breath faintly wheezing beneath the clatter of the pistol as it rattled on the wooden floor. With no small amount of help from the suit's propulsion abilities, Tony stood and staggered until he stood above the gun. Its molded grip fit smoothly between his shaking fingers, and he leveled the end toward Vasiliev's bleeding head.

An inkling of doubt slithered forward in his mind, staying his hand for the briefest of moments. _Could he really kill someone lying defenseless before him? Wouldn't Vasiliev be important for the information he could provide?_

Forcing these thoughts aside, Tony drew in a painful breath and squeezed the trigger.

A bang like a cannon thundered, and Tony closed his eyes to look away from the mutilated body lying dead before him. The visor of the suit illuminated his view with all of Jarvis' tools and applications, but Tony waved them away as he limped for the door of the hotel. He didn't bother to pack any of his things – he just needed to get out.

"Jarvis, check me out, will you? Housekeeping will have an aneurysm when they see this."

"Consider it done, sir. Where shall I book your next residence?"

Casting one last look over his shoulder, Tony grimaced at the sight of Vasiliev fallen across the table. "Anywhere but here, Jarvis. Anywhere but here."

 _(What are your thoughts so far? I appreciate all of your reviews more than I can say!)_


	30. End Times

_"The fruits of victory are tumbling into our mouths too quickly."_

 _\- Emperor Hirohito_

* * *

 _Location Classified; June 15, 1943_

The whir of electric wringers sounded above the slosh of water. The soft scent of detergent filled the laundry room with a long-lost connection to home and the memory of the ordinary things one would do back at home: washing clothes or peeling potatoes, folding laundry and appreciating times that weren't encompassed by war. Clint flung the mountain of dirty uniforms into the enormous pots to wash, mustering all the anger he could manage into each hurled uniform.

Ordinarily he went to the laundry room to make his wage – a buck a suit for over two hundred clients added up mighty fast, and he reckoned he made more than the officers did by starching uniforms. Now he came to get away from the prying eyes and ears of the men in his bunkroom. They had been suspicious and inquisitive about his time in the States for weeks after his early arrival back on the ship and couldn't seem to take no for an answer. Even when he left their whispers echoed in the corners of the room, when they thought he couldn't hear.

Clint reached forward and began to crank the wringer, watching as the dripping uniforms passed through the bars in crisp folds. The laundry room was his place to get away, where he could stew in silence without interruption. Or so he thought.

The door creaked open, announcing the entrance of D'Amico. He wore off-duty digs, most likely because Clint was washing his uniforms, and a pleasant expression that Clint wanted to slap off his face. He leaned against the wall, ever so casual.

"You better be careful with my uniforms, I won't stand for them being ripped apart. A buck for each of these? You're gonna be rich!"

Clint chose to keep his silence, pulling another batch of washed uniforms from their pot. Soapy water slapped against the ground, slicking the steel floor with a sheet of suds.

"God, Clint, I can't even talk to you anymore? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Nothing's the matter," Clint growled, sending the first five uniforms through the wringer. He hoped the buzzing would drown out D'Amico's words, but he persisted.

"Bull _shit._ Ever since you came back from the States you've been all uptight and angry at us. What gives?"

"You already know." This was true – news of the "unnamed agent's" breakout from the city hall had only recently reached the North Carolina, and Kessinger had been quick to keep the sailors and Marines up-to-date on the diplomatic repercussions. Clint made sure he left whenever the topic was brought up – he had had enough of Captain America's foolhardy exploits for a lifetime.

"Jesus, is this about the Nomura thing?"

"What do you think, Dan? Of course it's about the Nomura thing!"

"All right, listen up, you idiot. Put the uniform down. I'm about to tell your ignorant ass something, so you better pay attention." D'Amico fumed, crossing his arms and glaring at Clint. "Believe it or not, I was gonna be a politician before this blasted war, so I'd say I know a thing or two about this sort of thing."

"You? A politician?" Clint snorted with disbelief. "I doubt that."

"Hull and Nomura met years before your precious meeting, and they didn't do _squat_ to prevent the war. Nomura's sway in the Japanese balance of politics is worth jack shit, so even if he and the Secretary did come to some conclusion, it would most likely be rejected by the Japs in favor of war. You might have learned this if you didn't storm off in a huff every time we bring the issue up."

"Aren't the Marines angry? You heard what they said about sending back the coffins." Clint shook his head, trying to reconcile D'Amico's words with the truth he had believed for the past weeks. He couldn't fathom the garbage spewing from his friend's mouth.

"The Marines don't give a damn! They knew what they were getting into, and those figures don't surprise them. Not like they'll be true, anyways. Don't you get it? The only one who has their panties in a twist about this whole thing is you!"

"You don't get it – he signed off the deaths of our soldiers when he broke those POW's out!"

"They're going to war! Of course some of them are gonna die!" D'Amico threw his hands in the air, releasing an exasperated sigh.

"You're wrong." Clint refused to believe him, couldn't believe him.

"No, you're wrong. You don't care enough to look beyond your own nose because you don't want an excuse not to be pissed off anymore!" Tension crackled above the thrum of the washing clothing.

"You take that back," Clint seethed, his hands balling into fists.

D'Amico's eyes flicked to this gesture of agression, then met Clint's burning stare with a chilling anger of his own. "I won't. You know why? Because I, and the rest of the crew, are tired of pandering to your childish sense of morality. Look, Barton, I know you want to be right about this, but can't you let it go?"

"Just let the lives of a hundred thousand Marines go? Not likely!" The forward jab thrust from his arm like a rocket, but D'Amico anticipated the blow and brought his forearms up to block it. Clint threw himself forward and slammed his shoulder into his friend's chest, the suds on the floor causing them to fall to the ground. Drawing his arm back for another blow, Clint leaned to the side as D'Amico rolled out of harm's way. His clothes were now streaked with dirty water, forming muddy blotches on the once-pristine white surface.

"I'm not going to fight you. Is that how you solve problems, with your fists and not your brain?" Pulling himself to his feet, D'Amico held out a hand to help Clint up as well. "I should let you get back to your washing."

Clint swore to himself and ignored D'Amico's hand. He didn't need the man's charity or his sympathy – or his lofty opinions, for that matter. "Y'know why I come and wash all these uniforms? Because they don't try to chew me out every second of the day!"

D'Amico's cheerful expression hardened. Turning away, he called over his shoulder as he opened the door to head back to his post, "Just because we don't agree doesn't mean we're not friends, Barton. You ever want to talk, you know where to find me."

The door clanged shut, with Clint spitting in the wake of D'Amico's departure. _Let him go. Good riddance._

-o0o-

 _Rome, Italy; July 26, 1943_

Night loomed heavy and hot over the smoky skies of Rome. A balmy, humid wind stuck like sweat to any exposed skin, and Steve was practically suffocating in his fashionable yet long-sleeved evening wear. A hat dipped low over his eyes, concealing the face plastered across the silver screens of the world. Steve's attendance in the meeting was functional. The Allied strategists he was accompanying were not career soldiers, and they would need protection.

The shield was stashed in an extra-large suitcase clamped tightly in Steve's hand. Captain America had changed since Kasserine Pass, and his look had to reflect it. Colonel Philips had sent along a large parcel with Steve's new uniform, built with tough and utilitarian material to protect against shrapnel and bullets. Gone were the days of tights and tin shields – a circular disc took the place of its predecessor, built of vibranium that resisted everything Steve could throw at it.

Even the comic books had taken up this new angle, showing Captain America wrestling with the moral good of killing and the logical flaws with fascism. The newest newsreels stuck him right in the action, hurling grenades and tearing through enemy lines with the enlisted men. Indeed, Steve had spent the past weeks on Sicilian soil filming shorts with Patton's Seventh Division. The general had wanted to have pictures with Steve as he took Palermo, and they shook hands for a good five minutes while the photographers danced about to get the perfect angle. Patton didn't seem to mind, but Steve thought the whole ordeal was more than silly.

But now he had moved beyond television stunts into the real action. An amphibious landing fifty miles from Rome had deposited Steve and a small squad of intelligence officers on Italian shores undetected. Mussolini had been ousted mere days ago, replaced with the man the squad was tasked to meet with, Pietro Badoglio. The danger lay in the fact that Italy hadn't yet surrendered to Allied forces, and any Italian military would easily shoot the Allied officers on sight. In this darkened country they were all alone.

The meeting spot was a bombed-out department store disguised in the rubble of the hilly Roman roads. In Steve's opinion, it was an unseemly choice for the newly elected Prime Minister. Crushed concrete sheltered their illicit activities, the dangling bulb of a burned-out streetlamp hovering above his head as he stepped from the sidewalk through what he assumed was a doorway before the Allied bombs struck.

In front of Steve stood the three intelligence officers. For security purposes, they operated under codenames. The American officer was Rader, the British officer Corpse (which Steve found rather morbid) and the Russian officer Kursk. Their mannerisms were professional yet anonymous, as were their faces. Whenever Steve turned away he could never quite remember what each man looked like. All were dressed like Steve, in long coats and hats to hide their figures, and all were on edge as they ducked under the buckled lintel of the room to meet a room full of Italian soldiers.

Badoglio sat in the center of the room at a table, miraculously clean amongst the rubble. His face was haggard and solemn, with dark shadows like charcoal smeared beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, but his vision flashed with alertness as he observed the newcomers. His gaze lingered on Steve's suitcase for a moment before turning back to the officers, standing and extending his hand to shake.

From across the room, one soldier's finger drifted towards the trigger of his rifle.

Rader shook first, followed by Corpse and Kursk, and they sat in the chairs proffered by Badoglio. Steve stood behind them against the pitted wall, hands clasped in front of him on the handle of his suitcase. Anticipation choked the air, practically throwing off sparks as Badoglio took his seat and rested his chin on his hands.

"Mussolini is still alive," he began in lightly accented English. "As I am sure you are aware. His position will be given to me in the near future."

"Why else would we be meeting with you? We know all this," Kursk growled. He turned a ring around his finger around his finger as the Italian spoke, the practiced motion of an old habit. Badoglio merely sighed, lifting his hat from his head and drawing a hand through his silver hair.

"I am wary to sign an armistice with your countries."

"Do you fear German repercussions? You would have the strength of the Allied forces behind you! Rest assured that the livelihood of Italy would be spared!" Corpse interjected.

Shaking his head, Badoglio stood and placed his cap on his desk. The rows of soldiers around the room stiffened, eyes darting with renewed vigor from the officers to their leader and back again. "Just as the strength of the Allied forces protected the Philippines? Hawaii? _France_? Gentlemen, Germany is still the strongest power in Europe, and defying them will mean certain doom for my people."

This stifled Corpse's enthusiasm; he studied his boots with a tinge of an ashamed blush coloring his high cheekbones. Kursk opened his mouth to speak, but Badoglio continued.

"I am sure you have heard of the newest technological innovations my allies have introduced as well. Guns so large they have to be ferried about by rail. Aeroplanes that fly at speeds that would run circles around your newest models. Would it be wise to turn against such a well-armed power?"

"Germany is too busy retreating from the bulk of the Russian army. They have no need to trifle with a lesser enemy." Kursk spat. "I have seen the effects of these weapons on my people, Prime Minister. I assure you, they are not enough to stop an army."

"The Russian Army, perhaps," Badoglio mused, tracing the edge of his desk with a finger as he paced, "but Italian forces are not as well-equipped and well-staffed. The turmoil of _Il Duce_ 's fall and a German invasion from the north... How could my country hope to survive?"

"Speaking of invasions –" Rader began, but Kursk waved his comments away.

"Are you afraid of the flying man from the papers, Prime Minister? You wouldn't take the steps to preserve your country after this hellish war because you were frightened from ladies' gossip journals?"

Badoglio's eyes popped, and he turned to Kursk with a burning gaze. "There are German lines of fortification _in my country!_ What damage would they do if I were to reveal myself as a turncoat? I repeat, I am reluctant to begin the journey to an armistice until the German menace is free from Italian soil. And that is final!"

Settling back in his chair, Kursk nodded his affirmation. Steve tilted his head and listened to the sounds of the rubble-scarred city. The trickle of pulverized cement sounded as the bombed-out buildings shifted, scattering a fine layer of dust across Badoglio's tabletop. Glancing to his left, Steve peered through the enormous hole in the wall and ceiling of the meeting room, watching the ruined buildings on the opposite side of the street. Shadows flitted like ghosts across their charred facades, the hiss of dust low beneath the wind. His finger reached down slowly, unlatching the suitcase and slipping his arm down to grip the handle of the shield.

Steve reacted as soon as the sound of the shot thundered into the air. His arm swung around like a pendulum, shielding the Italian Prime Minister from the bullet aimed for the man's heart. Sparks scattered from the shield as the bullet ricocheted off of the glossy surface and embedded itself into the wall. Fifteen rifles snapped into position, aiming across the street for whoever had fired, but the darkness gave the would-be assassin a much-needed advantage. Not waiting for the Italian soldiers to initiate contact, Steve leaped forward and charged into the street with his shield held before him.

Another shot clipped the ground beside his foot and then the edge of his shield, but Steve was undeterred. He raised the metal disc above his shoulders and forced his way through the wooden doors of the apartment complex. Shrieks and rapid Italian swearing followed his entrance as he forced his way through the foyer and up the stairs, bounding up three steps at a time. Once he reached the third floor he ran for the apartments that had windows, forcing his heel into the wood nearest the hinges. The flimsy door shuddered and slammed to the ground, splintering against the warped wooden floor of the apartment. A family stared back at Steve with astonishment, silent for a moment before leaping into yammering Italian. They waved their arms to shoo him away, and Steve backed towards the other apartment with hands raised.

"Sorry, ma'am, I'll pay you back for the damages, sorry," he called, then threw his weight against the opposite door. It gave way to reveal an empty flat save a blanket and a high-powered sniper rifle. Both were abandoned. Steve dropped to his knees and peered through the rifle's scope, which framed the figures of Badoglio and the Allied strategists perfectly. There could be no doubt about who the sniper was going to kill – the _x_ was fitted over the Italian Prime Minister's head.

A clattering sound drew Steve from his position and onto his feet in seconds, charging towards the source of the disturbance. Footsteps pounded on metal as Steve chased after the fleeing assassin to a spiraling metal staircase. Charging through the tiny rooms of the apartment, Steve found the source of the noise in the back corner of the building, the staircase twining up through the ceiling. The flash of a boot caught his eye before the assassin fled to the roof, and Steve ascended the stairs in moments. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, and his fingers itched to put his new weapons to the test.

The sweltering night air washed over him as Steve burst onto the apartment roof, which appeared devoid of life. The only light that shone around him was the moon, with blackout curtains shuttering the livelihood of Rome behind starchy fabric. His eyes scanned the horizon, but he could scarcely make out a pinprick of light around him. How would he be able to find the assassin in these conditions?

The bark of a gun firing preceded a flash of pain along Steve's thigh; he reached down to feel torn fabric and warm blood pooling on his fingers, a mere nuisance. Dropping to the ground, Steve squinted into the gloom for any sign of the assassin. His heartbeat pounded over the whispering silence of the moonlit night.

A shadow fell across Steve and he turned just in time to see the assassin descending on him from the sky. Two enormous wings stretched from his sides, every movement paired with a screech of metal the shower of sparks. Steel draped and folded over itself in lightweight segments, bending and flexing with every movement of the assassin's body. Thick straps shackled the man into his wings, coiling over his shoulders and around his chest to support his body in flight. As soon as the shock wore off, Steve jumped up and threw his shield at the rightmost wing.

Sparks leaped across the roof as the shield gouged a gash in the delicate structure of the wing. Planting his feet against the concrete roof, the assassin leaped upward in a jerky bid towards the sky. The broken parts ground and howled against each other as he struggled to raise himself to a height out of Steve's range. Fumbling hands reached for a pistol, most likely the weapon that had wounded Steve before. Despite the complicated machinery strapped to his back that obviously gave the man the upper hand, he seemed nervous and shaky as he aimed the weapon at Steve. One clumsy shot pinged off of the roof, then another. Steve lunged forward and tucked his body in close to roll underneath the winged assassin, scooping his shield from the roof before twisting his body back for another attack.

Steve's mechanical expertise came into use in this moment – he knew at a glance that the right wing was structurally compromised. If the assassin was smart he would abandon the failing machination, but he continued to sway and struggle in the air. With every pump of his wings, he was further damaging the carefully crafted segments. Steve yanked his arm forward and released the shield again, but this time the man was clever enough to bring up his other wing to protect the broken one. Squinting against the shower of cinders, Steve ducked behind the stairwell as the assassin fired another shot at him, this one much too close for comfort. A dull clicking sound indicated that his assailant had run out of ammunition.

Steve emerged from his hiding place and made a dash for his shield again. Anticipating his move, the assassin swooped down and folded his wings forward, pulling them apart in a slashing motion that would have separated Steve's head from his body if he hadn't ducked. He slid up next to his shield like it was home base, bringing the vibranium up over his head before the assassin's boots came down hard on the metal.

He was pinned between the roof and his attacker. Steve's arms burned as he forced the man from crushing him, but the added weight of the metal wings pressed his body closer to the concrete. Gritting his teeth, Steve lifted himself up on one elbow and turned his shoulder under the shield. He could feel the hot breath of the assassin against his ear, the energy and pain pumping in the air.

Steve drew his arm back, yanking the shield out from the assassin's feet, and the surprised man fell to the roof with his feet straddling Steve's shoulders. Steve drew his shield arm across his body and thrust his elbow back, bringing the shield around and into the man's face. His goggles shattered and his nose splintered. A sharp kick to the ribs forced his assailant off-balance, wings flailing and dragging across the roof as the man collapsed, pawing at his wounded face.

Leaping to his feet, Steve bounded over to the collapsed assassin. He pulled his shield over his head and down on the central ball-and-socket that locked the wings into the harness. With a whine of metal the wing sheared away from the rest of the structure, flailing and slapping against the concrete as its circuitry shorted. Steve ducked behind his shield as the metal rocketed across the concrete, tearing into the stone and anything that came in its path. Embers hissed against his suit as sparks caught on the fabric. _I'll be in hot water after this mess - this was a new sui_ _t!_

Steve crawled over to the man, his head ducked low as the right wing continued its spasming, and he tore the harness straps open. The assassin was too bleary-eyed and battered to protest as Steve pulled him away from his ruined flying apparatus, which was reaching a blistering heat as its engines backfired. Electricity sparked from the center of the wings and arced outward, blackening the steel. Fire raced across the wires, scorching the swastika designs seared onto the widest parts of the wings. With a wail of dying machinery, the wings exploded in a magnificent flash of light and roiling fire. Smoke broiled across the moonlit sky, obscuring even the stars.

Steve fell back against the concrete, panting alongside the man who had moments ago tried to kill him. His leg seared and his body was battered from the encounter, but he was no worse for wear. The opposite could be said of the Nazi assassin, whose face was smeared with fresh blood and peppered with glass from his broken eyewear. Pushing himself to his knees, Steve shuffled over to the man.

"You're with the Germans, aren't you? Why were you going to kill the Prime Minister?"

The man mustered a whimpering snicker, rolling on his side away from Steve. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth crimson. "I'll never tell you anything, filth."

"Where did you get those wings? They're state-of-the-art!" Steve cried, trying to pull the man back. When the assassin looked back at him one of his teeth was balanced on his tongue. Before the truth registered in Steve's mind, the man had bitten down on the concealed pill, foam racing across his mouth as he swallowed the poison.

"Heil Hitler..." the man whispered, rocking back onto the roof. His face froze in a triumphant grimace, body convulsing and limbs flailing as the poison raced through his bloodstream. Steve jumped forward and forced the man's jaw apart, trying in vain to prevent the inevitable. His body stilled, eyes dulling as they mirrored the lapping flames.

Steve's head dropped to his chest, exhausting finally overcoming him as smoke drifted from the roof. The wail of the fire department sounded some distance away, but it appeared low and mournful in Steve's ears. His fingers slid over the man's eyes, closing them against the horrors the battle had left behind.

A brief breath of wind brought a fragment of a burned label skittering against Steve's shoe. He stooped down to pick it up, eyes flashing across the words before the paper disintegrated in his hand.

Two words stood bold in his vision even after the paper crumpled into flaky ashes between his fingers: _Stark Industries._

Steve stood on the edge of the roof as the Italian troops poured out of the staircase, assessing the damage and ferrying the body of the Nazi down to the streets. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon as the wind tugged at his ruined clothes, fist clenched around the grip of his shield.

Steve was jolted out of his contemplation when Rader clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I used to think Captain America was just a propaganda tool, Rogers. But you did some good work out here tonight. Congratulations."

Nodding absently, Steve watched as the American tactician strode over to Corpse and Kursk to admire the ruined mechanical wings. A Nazi assassin, a winged machine beyond any military technology Steve had ever seen, secret diplomatic missions gone sour... _What was going on_?

 _(Long chapter in celebration of a long weekend! Hope you have a great day, and feel free to leave a review if you're enjoying Repulse so far!)_


	31. The Rising Sun

_"Peace is absurd: Fascism does not believe in it."_

 _\- Benito Mussolini, Italian dictator_

* * *

 _Gilbert Islands; November 19, 1943_

The deck glowed under the ethereal illumination of the float lights hanging suspended in the air above the _North Carolina._ The flares blotted out the stars, silhouetting the ships' formation and making them easy prey for the Japanese bombers racing ahead. The low drone of an airplane engine whined above Clint's head, dropping low to the height of the mast.

His mount opened fire on instinct, tracing the path of the plane as it tore down the starboard side of the ship. A plume of flames erupted from the engine as it was torn to shreds by gunfire, and Clint's fist punched into the air as the plane spiraled into the sea.

"One down, only a few million more to go!" A shout came from down the deck. The 5-inch guns roared their response, following the mount captain's rally to attack, and thundering shells pounded into the sky. Clint didn't pity the lone plane swooping towards the _North Carolina_ , and the starboard battery unleashed all hell on the Japanese fighter. Smoke and fire bloomed from the guns, and the casual observer might think that the ship was on fire. It was a magnificent sight to behold, but danger loomed too close for comfort.

The ship rotated for another emergency turn, ducking out of the path of enemy bombers for the umpteenth time that night. If the seas were rough the men on deck would have to abandon battle stations, but now the only threat to the sailors came from the air. Molten metal poured from the port battery, then the starboard, each alternating as the North Carolina swiveled to and fro in its evasive maneuvers.

The eyes of the sailors were locked on the engagement above the starboard side of the ship, where two Japanese planes were coursing through puffs of smoke from exploded anti-aircraft shells. Clint turned away as the first plane ruptured and leaked a stream of black oil in its wake, shielding his eyes from the glare of the float lights and squinting to make out a black shadow thrown into harsh relief against the night sky.

"Port side!" He hollered, dragging the gunner's gaze away from the battle and directing him toward the shadow quickly growing on the horizon. The fighter loomed low, far too low to be acting with a squad, at speeds Clint hadn't seen the Japanese pilots dare fly before. The other mounts were too busy focusing on the battle above them they were blind to the attack to their sides.

"Holy shit! Lock up!" The gunner roared, and Clint tugged the lever to swivel the gun to its extreme left position. The gun barrel spun downward until it was almost parallel with the deck, Clint's hand steady on the lever, gently angling the end upward above the heads of the sailors. The grinding of the pilot's engine caught the attention of the other sailors, but he was coming in too hot for them to rotate and fire.

Clint's eyes strained against the light, but he thought he could see a trail of smoke following the lone plane. Its wings shuddered and balked as black clouds spewed from its side, yet its pilot remained determined as he sped closer and closer to the deck of the ship.

"What is he doing? Why isn't he parachuting out?" Kessinger called from the next mount over, his anxiety almost tangible as he tore his eyes from the dogfight to meet Clint's gaze.

"I don't know, Kess, but we're shooting him down!" The gunner pulled down on the twin triggers beneath his hands, and a stream of bullets shredded the distance between the fighter and the gun barrel. The recognizable thuds of contact sounded and gears ground together, silencing the plane's propellers. Still the pilot refused to desist, coasting the remaining distance to the deck. Many of the mounts began abandoning their posts as the pilot reached fifty yards from the end of the fantail, one wing angling up to the sky while the other dipped to the deck. Clint held his ground, tensing beside the controls as he charted the new line of flight.

A second spray of bullets peppered the body of the plane, puncturing the glass top of the plane and spider-webbing the structure with holes. The lowest wing tore across the edge of the deck, gouging a deep crevice of shredded metal in its wake as the pilot forced his craft forward. Like a knife the plane tore across the front of the 20-millimeter mounts, shearing the barrel off of one abandoned mount's gun. Clint dragged a lever back and yanked his gun in the upright position before it could be similarly incapacitated, giving him a perfect view of the pilot as he continued his screaming course down the length of the ship.

He was staring right at Clint _._

The boy was young, no older than Farley had been, his youthful features shrouded behind goggles. Blood smeared the inside of the cabin, framing the shattered body of the pilot so determined to go on. His eyes gleamed with a darkness so potent it leaked into his very being, a chilling mask of death leering back at Clint before the plane swerved off of the deck and crashed into the sea. A geyser of water thundered against the side of the ship before the crumpled plane sank beneath the waves.

The all-clear siren blared hours later, the first time Clint had relaxed since he saw the Japanese pilot meet his brutal end. The men leaned against their mounts and released a collective breath. The battle of the day had been won.

-o0o-

Cards and bills slapped against the floor of the Marine barracks. Lights-out had already begun, but the men in Clint's compartment flicked on their lighters and huddled in a circle between the bunks for a late-night game of acey-deucy. The pot had grown sizeably over the night, and the sailors were eyeing their possible winnings with beady eyes.

D'Amico played in his characteristic style, betting exorbitantly high and getting swindled every time. He begged Peicott for cash whenever he was bled dry, who forked over a few dollars with a good-natured chuckle. Most surprising of all were Kessinger's winnings; he was cleaning the floor with the sailors and Marines alike, pulling in more cash than anyone else. No one guessed the bookish sailor would be the best at cards.

"If you win another round I'm going to have to frisk you, Kess." D'Amico rooted around in his pockets for change. "I call in between."

"Another loss, Danny boy," Fox gave D'Amico a cheeky wink as he dragged his coins into the pot. "Why would you make a bet like that? The cards were two numbers apart from each other."

"There will come a day when the third card will be in the exact middle of the two drawn, and I'll be there to bet on it." D'Amico grinned, leaning back against his bunk with his hands behind his head. "Hey, Peicott, can I have a buck?"

Peicott scoffed, placing a hand protectively on his wallet. "I've lost more money on you tonight than I have betting. Try someone else."

"Your turn, Clint. Bet a buck?"

"Yeah, why not. Between," Clint passed a dollar to Fox, who was the night's dealer. He had the two of spades and eleven of hearts – an easy hand. Sure enough, the seven of hearts was the next card dealt, and Clint received two dollars in return.

"You saw that Jap pilot tonight, right? The one that carved up the fantail and the starboard side," one of the Marines began, "He just tore straight across the deck. I heard damage control say there's no harm done, besides that one gun that got cut up."

"He had run out of gas and his plane was already torn up. Just coasting," Clint added, watching as D'Amico tried to weasel a few bucks out of the nearest Marine. Heads nodded in the circle around him, illuminated from below by the assortment of lighters. If Clint didn't know better, he might assume he had dropped in on a strange cult meeting. "Came in from way far off, he did. Coulda jumped out whenever."

"It's damn creepy, that's what. I hear they're all wound up about their emperor. They'll do all this shit for him, eating other people and jumping off of buildings instead of surrendering. It's unnatural," Peicott frowned, glowering down at the cards. "I'll pass this round, Fox."

"My brother's a Marine too, back on Guadalcanal," stocky Burt Clark interjected, placing a fiver on the steel floor and shoving it toward the pot. "He's told me horror stories from the land troops. It's bloody and awful down there. We're lucky we're on this ship."

Fox shrugged, drawing Clark's third card and adding his bill to the pot. "Bad luck, Clark. And bad luck we got stationed here, too. I signed up for the Marines so I could make a change, y'know, do something with my life for once. And here I am playing cards."

Clark shuddered, eyes flickering from face to face as the flames from the lighters wavered. "I don't know, Fox. The things he told me... I don't think people could do that to other people. It's unthinkable."

This chilling statement hung over the circle as they bunched closer together, shoulders brushing in the near-darkness. The only sounds were the rustle of bills and the various creaks of the ship's beams as it steamed through the waves. Cards rustled as Fox shuffled, his face as drawn and long as shadows flitted across his face.

"I can't stand it! Someone crack a joke or something, please. Don't make me do all the work here!" D'Amico burst out, his usual grin plastered across his features. "Say, Kess, how's it a guy like you is so good at cards?"

Kessinger ducked his head as the circle of betters turned to him, embarrassed by all the attention. "It's simple math, really. Any player who bets consistently on hands with less than eight numbers between them will face continual losses."

"And you just figured that out watching us play?" D'Amico released a low whistle. "You should be up there with the brass steering this hunk of metal, Kess. What are you doing with us riffraff below the waterline?"

Their conversation drifted back to war, a topic Clint was forever used to. A hardened look came over the sailors' faces when they recalled the day's battle. It was a fatal flaw of soldiers, Clint assumed, that they couldn't let go of fighting. He saw it in every bleary eye and stooped shoulders of his friends as the days of combat began to build on each other.

"I don't know, but it seems like this war is going to last forever. The Japanese would rather blow themselves up than throw in the towel, and there are millions of them on the mainland. At the rate we're going, we'll have to pry every single goddamn island from their cold, dead hands!" Peicott shook his head, eyes burning.

"Things are changing in Europe, at least. I read that Italy surrendered and is fighting against the Germans after the Allies invaded. That's good news," Kessinger added, placing a few bills on the ground for a bet which, of course, he won. "Guess who was there, Barton? Your buddy Captain America! He took down the Nazi flag over the embassy, it was all over the papers."

"I bet," D'Amico butted in, flashing Clint a quick grin, "that our buddy Barton is making all of this up. He doesn't really know the guy."

"Bet with what, Dan? You're all out of cash!" Clint fired back, and the sailors jeered at D'Amico until he returned to his position in the circle in embarrassed yet cheerful silence.

"Barton's shown us the letters, he's the real deal. Tell you what, when we get back to the States I want to meet the guy. Can't you get us an autograph or something? My girl would love a picture of Captain America, she writes about him more than she does about me," Peicott raised an eyebrow, and Clint found himself nodding.

 _After San Francisco, will Steve even talk to me anymore?_ Clint regretted some of what he had said in their falling-out, especially the part about never seeing Steve again. He was still angry, and he thought justifiably so, but D'Amico and the other sailors had helped him see some of the error in his ways. Steve was the one who probably didn't want to see Clint again after the way he had treated him stateside.

"Yeah, Paulie. I'll get your girl a dinner date, if she wants one."

"Swell!" Peicott shook his hand vigorously, and D'Amico groused as he peered into his empty wallet in a desperate bid to get back into the acey-deucy game.

"Have you seen that guy on TV? All _America_ and _justice_ and _drink your Ovaltine..._ I'll bet he doesn't even drink!"

Clint clapped a hand on D'Amico's shoulder and laughed to himself. "If only you knew, Dan. If only you knew..."

 _(Happy Friday, everyone! Thank you so much for your continual support!)_


	32. Vergissmeinnicht

_"Studies by Medical Corps psychiatrists of combat fatigue cases..._

 _found that the fear of killing, rather than the fear of being killed,_

 _was the most common cause of battle failure, and that_

 _fear of failure ran a strong second."_

 _\- S. L. A. Marshall_

* * *

Buck,

How is the Army life treating you? I got your last letter that you're out of the hospital, which is great news. I would celebrate with you, but I'm busy increasing troop morale in Anzio. It's tough work, and I've seen more blood and bandages in the last few days than I ever want to see again.

When I'm not on stage I volunteer with the nurses in the aid stations. They can bind a bone or tie off a vein without smearing their makeup, real wartime dames. There's a girl named Dolores I think you'd like, a real spunky girl with your kind of attitude. I've met GI's from Louisiana to Idaho and everywhere in between, and they each have a story to tell.

I've also gotten to pick the brains of the nurses, and they tell me some of your symptoms aren't from being pushed around by Japanese soldiers. I know you don't want to talk to me about what happened in Burma, and I respect that, but I worry about you. Imagine that – tiny Steve Rogers worrying about his sergeant friend! Times have changed.

I hope you had a very merry Christmas back in the States, it was all very cheery over here in Italy with lots of wine and chocolate. Did you get the box of chocolates I mailed over? By the time they arrive in the States they'll all be melted, I suppose. The sailor friend I wrote you about, Clint Barton, sent me a postcard from the _North Carolina_ , so maybe we're turning over a new leaf.

I have to get this off my chest, Buck, so I might as well tell you. Nothing has been the same since Kasserine Pass. I still remember those staring faces and that awful stench. Those kinds of things stick with you, I guess. Captain America does more fighting in the comic books than he does in real life! I suppose that's the nature of show business, but look at you, a POW rescued from the brutality of Japanese prison camps already back on his feet and ready to fight again! Surely I can fight as well, can't I?

I was engineered to be a soldier, Buck, and I'm slapping on bandages in aid stations. I watched American soldiers pinned by eight German divisions and I couldn't do a thing to help them.

If this goes on much longer I'll have to take things into my own hands. I won't stand by when there's a need for help, _my_ help. Colonel Philips won't take my calls anymore – I don't know who to trust. I'd better sign off now before my head explodes – maybe literally, because the Germans just began shelling again.

Your friend,

Steve Rogers

-o0o-

 _Berlin, Germany; February 21, 1944_

"Your machines are not working!" Schwarz seethed, slamming his palm onto the surface of the table. A pair of handcuffs lay beside his flattened fist, the chains clinking together in a crude reminder of the power staring him down at Tony from the other end of the table.

The Germans' ignorance bored him, but their heavy-handed threats of violence were almost exciting. "My machines are working just fine. It's your idiot generals who aren't using them right!"

Schwarz scoffed, but Roth cast him a sharp glance and propped his elbows on the table. The classic tale of good cop and bad cop, only German. "We are experiencing some frustration that your designs are not providing the desired results."

"How so?" Tony crossed his arms, restraining the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. These military men were all the same – they thought if they could hurl a hunk of steel against an oncoming army their problems would disappear. No semblance of strategy whatsoever.

"The Russians are rolling back our advances despite your massive cannon's fighting capabilities. The largest weapon of its type in the world, you said!"

"It is! It can devastate small towns with a single shell. Unless you used it to take potshots at bunkers, it's a formidable weapon." He raised an eyebrow at the two Kripo officers, who now refused to meet his eyes. "You used it to take potshots at bunkers, didn't you?"

"That is beside the point," Schwarz interjected, waving a technical report before him like a flag of surrender. "And your jet bombers, another letdown! You said one could regain air superiority due to their superior speed!"

Tony reached across the table and swiped the report from the officer, perusing the document for a moment before handing it back. "You only built twelve of them. No one in their right mind can win a war with twelve planes, no matter how good they may be!" Both of the officers sat stony-faced, deaf to his complaints.

"Your – what was your name for it again? Your _vulture_ was defeated in Italy by a comic book hero," Schwarz sneered, passing a folder stuffed full of pictures across the table. Tony opened it and leafed through the glossy prints, each capturing a split-second of action on a darkened rooftop. Sparks flew as a man in civilian clothes swung for the German agent in Tony's flying contraption. The metal twisted in unnatural ways, and the last series of photographs depicted a blooming explosion. He noticed the painted swastikas on the wings. That was the Germans, after all, always propagandizing.

"You used this against Steve?" he whispered, then straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. _Can't show any emotion in front of these clowns._ "It was expressly drafted as a prototype! I didn't work out all of the kinks yet – your man could have died!"

"Our man did die, no thanks to you. His name was Hermann. Has a daughter about this high..." Schwarz began, and Tony turned his head away.

"You're expecting too much of me."

Roth shook his head, his neutral expression replaced with a hardened, chilling anger. "No. We expected of you what your talent dictated, and you have failed us. We expected more of you, Tony Stark."

"You think this is my fault?" Tony cried, dragging a hand through his hair, "You're the ones who think twelve planes will win you air superiority! You're the ones putting soldiers in prototype suits and hoping for the best! Remind me again how this is my fault? Jesus, I did better business with the Russians, and they tried to kill me!"

Schwarz's eyes narrowed, and he leaned over the table with his hands planted in front of Tony's shoulders. "Yes, we know about your shady history with our enemies. The very Russians who are gutting our armies and leaving them to freeze without a proper burial, who grind their bodies into the ground with their tanks. How do we know you're not still colluding with them, huh?"

"What? That's absurd!" Tony gasped. "Take a joke, man. I just said they tried to kill me, remember?"

Roth stood beside Schwarz and hung his jacket over his arm, a sign that the meeting was over. "We will take your advice into account, Stark, but be warned. If we fail to see significant progress from your designs, we will terminate our arrangement."

"Am I supposed to be frightened by that?" Tony sneered, and Roth gave him a level look before lowering his voice.

"Watch your back, Stark. That is all."

-o0o-

The telephone booth in the Hotel Adlon was unoccupied, which Tony was grateful for. He preferred it to the Hotel Kaiserhof across from the Chancellery because the latter was a known hangout for Nazi bigwigs and government officials. The Adlon also boasted a "luxury bomb shelter," if such a thing really existed, and Tony didn't fancy the idea of having his headstone say he was killed by friendly fire. That would be downright embarrassing.

His mother picked up on the first ring. It was a stupid thing to get sentimental about, but since he had become a vigilante globetrotter it seemed like he hadn't heard her voice in ages. Maria Stark brought memories of running on the grass and graceful smiles and tender embraces. Nothing like the cold, cruel bureaucratic machinery of the German government that was about to tear him to pieces.

"Tony! It's about time you called home!" she berated him, her voice betraying an uncharacteristic tremble of worry.

"Sorry, mother. I was busy," Tony attempted to explain, feeling just as sheepish as if he were seeing her face-to-face.

"Just like your father, always out and about. Where are you now? Howard sent a telegram that you were racking up quite a bill in Austria, something about hotel housekeeping?"

"Um, that was nothing. Nothing to be concerned about. I'm fine, you don't have to worry. Where is dad, by the way?"

The briefest pause on the end of the line – his mother's tell that she was concealing something. "New Mexico, dear. He and the luminaries are going down for some experiments or something along those lines. You remember Edward Teller from the Expo, don't you?"

"Was he old, balding and socially inept? All of the scientists seem the same to me."

"Oh, Tony, don't be rude. Listen, I know you might be seeing the world to get away from your father. I understand you're angry when he grounded your after Casablanca –"

"Of course I was angry! He had no right to keep me locked up, I almost died of boredom!" Tony supposed his house arrest had _some_ positive outcomes. He had designed his suit, which had saved his life in the scuffle with Vasiliev. He was far too old to be grounded, anyways.

"But the ship was sunk by a U-boat just after you left!"

The buzz of the telephone line sang in Tony's ear as the words settled. The _Reuben James_ , gone? "W-what? Why didn't I hear about this?"

A tone of careful concern followed. "It was just after Pearl Harbor, so not the biggest news out there." She paused, and he could envision her sympathetic expression perfectly. "Are you all right, Tony?"

He shook his head vigorously, clearing away the thoughts and emotions crowding his brain. No time to worry about that now. He had bigger problems, like avoiding getting a Luger stuck up his ass when he stepped out of the phone booth. "Always. What's so important that it's pulling dad away from his wartime work?"

"Oh, I think it is for the war. He said a full-fledged general was overseeing the project, if you can imagine. I'm sure Howard is just basking in the attention," she admitted, her voice light and airy even though they both knew she wasn't joking.

"Right. I've got to go, mother. I'll call you soon, okay?"

"You had better, Tony," she teased, and her side of the line clicked off.

Releasing a slow breath, Tony closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the side of the booth. If some government project was enough to pull Howard and his genius group from their work down to Nowhere, USA, it must be important. Maybe important enough, if Tony found out about it, to keep the Germans off of his tail. Howard might be his ticket out of the Gestapo's clutches.

A pang of irony struck him – as always, he was relying on Howard to get him out of a sticky situation. _But no longer,_ Tony decided. After this final favor he would be free of Howard's grip for good, free from his dealings with the Gestapo.

Freedom should have been simple. Why did war have to go and make things so complicated?


	33. Issen Gorin

_"At the core, the American citizen soldiers knew the difference_

 _between right and wrong, and they didn't want_

 _to live in a world in which wrong prevailed."_

 _\- Stephen Ambrose_

* * *

 _Santa Fe, New Mexico; April 3, 1943_

Tony pounded his fist against the PO box, sending a reverberating clang throughout the tiny Santa Fe post office. Knuckles smarting, he rested his forehead against the cool metal of the shelves.

Weeks of digging through government documents and cracking codes had led to this? A tiny, useless mail box in the middle of the desert? Had he broken a score of laws, infiltrated military databases and compromised the security of the government for nothing?

He had uncovered some information about Howard's mysterious trips, but nothing that would somehow get him off the hook with the Germans. From all that he could figure, Howard was doing perfectly mundane business with Clinton Engineer Works processing raw materials. Very vague, but very legal. Nothing surprising or exciting to show Roth and Schwarz, and it was his neck on the line for this one.

"Looking for something?"

Tony's fists clenched, he turned his head to the side and looked to see Howard standing at the end of the hall of boxes, hands in his pockets and tie loosened. That in and of itself was a small miracle – Tony had always thought his father would rather starve than loosen his tie – but now Howard looked totally at ease, a wide smile on his face. Taunting him.

"I know all about it," Tony bluffed, nudging his briefcase with his toe. Above the compartments for his suit were reams of paper he had stolen, desperately trying to connect the dots for Howard's strange activities. "I know about everything. You think you can get away with this?"

"No, I can't. Nearly a half a million people in the program and not a single one gives a peep? Impossible. I didn't know my own son would be the one blowing the whistle on us, though." Howard leaned back on his heels, still grinning broadly in a mood Tony had never seen him in before. He felt destabilized, like the ground was trembling beneath his feet, confusion gripping his mind as he tried to process his father's words.

"Yep, I sure am. You and your cronies are made." Tony crossed his arms, daring Howard to make a move. Leaning back his head, Howard burst into deep laughter, his shoulders shaking as his guffaws echoed down the hallway.

"Tony, my boy. You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?"

Tony felt a flush of anger rising up his neck. "I do too. Offices in Manhattan, Clinton Engineer Works. Nuclear power. And this PO box. It all makes sense. Why so isolated, though?"

Reaching forward, Howard placed a hand on Tony's shoulder. There was no warmth in his grasp, no fatherly affection, like a hand of a dead man. "If you knew what was going on, Tony, you would know why we're located here. Must I spell everything out for you?"

"Spare me," Tony growled, pulling his arm away. "Why are you here?"

Howard's expression turned slightly sour. He reached into his lapel pocket and pulled out a few envelopes, flipping through them casually and looking up at Tony from the bridge of his nose.

"When I found out you were colluding with the Fascists, I was upset, and rightfully so. A government ally whose son is a full-blown traitor? What would happen to the Stark reputation?"

"God forbid I tarnish the Stark reputation."

"Then your trips across the globe nearly end your life in the ocean. Next you're hopping all over occupied Europe. Arrested in Berlin?"

Tony bristled. "How do you know about that?"

"You're not the only one who has contacts in the Gestapo," Howard raised an eyebrow. "And then you try to infiltrate the most secret operation of the war. Rather clumsily so, if I do say so myself. Although getting into the Pentagon was quite impressive, I still don't know how you did that."

"Yeah, good on me for breaking into the Pentagon. You're some parent, y'know?"

"You have mail back at home, you know. If you'd ever stop by and give your dear mother a hug – your narrowly escaping death makes her so worried."

"Don't bring my mother into this."

"Let's see here... A party in the Cotentin, you're invited. And what do we have here? A letter from the Army!" Howard brandished the envelope like it was a weapon, quivering in the air clutched between two of his fingers. "I forgot to wish you a happy eighteenth. You're a man now, Tony."

A knot of fear rested at the bottom of Tony's stomach, as cold and dense as steel. "What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Howard chuckled lightly, but there was no flash of amusement in his dark eyes. "You've been drafted, son. 291st Engineer Combat Battalion. You'll do you your old man proud."

The ground seemed to spin beneath Tony's feet. He placed a hand against the wall of mailboxes to steady himself, unwilling to meet his father's eyes.

He couldn't fight. He couldn't lift a rifle against his greatest business partner, couldn't take part in a war he didn't believe in. Fighting was for the less-thans, the Bartons of the world. Tony was destined for something greater, and they were going to stick him in a uniform and make him march?

"The discipline will be good for you," Howard insisted, that same sleazy smile on his face. "Teach you a lesson or two about respecting authority."

"You're trying to ship me off?" Tony growled between his teeth, his nails biting into his palm

"Ship you off? No, of course now. Straighten you out – well, maybe."

"I'm your _son_!"

Howard scoffed, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if beseeching some heavenly power to give him patience. "So now you want to hearken to family ties, when it's convenient? You'd divorce this family in an instant if you could. I've had enough of your lies."

Turning away, Tony squared his shoulders to the lockers and inhaled sharply. He could get away. He had the suit, he was practically untouchable. Howard didn't know this, so Tony had the upper hand. But it was that clever gleam in his father's eyes, that sharp hint of knowingness, that chilled him.

"If you don't care about our reputation, don't you at least care about the greater good? I make weapons for our country so that Germans no longer have to live under the swastika. Boys your age are killing themselves because they _can't_ enlist. Have you no decency?"

"Don't lecture me about decency. You're getting rich off of Axis blood yourself."

"I suspect your record is equally dirty," Howard frowned, his mouth a drawn line. Tony ducked his head, closing his eyes against the images assailing him. Jet engines and missiles, glossy Kripo photographs of ruined Russian towns. His father was right – Tony was just as crooked as he was.

 _I'm just like my father._

Tony turned on his heel and ran, feet pounding against the slick floor as he raced put everything behind him. The freedom of the suit called to him, but Howard loomed over him as he left, his voice thundering in Tony's ears even when he was out of sight.

"You can't run forever, Tony! You can't run!"

 _(Any idea what Howard's shady dealings are? Thank you so much for reading!)_


	34. Rendezvous

_"Democracy has no convictions for which people_

 _would be willing to stake their lives."_

 _\- Dr. Ernst Hanfstaengl_

* * *

 _May 28, 1944; New York City, New York_

"I flew all the way from the South Pacific for this, so it had better be good." Clint mused over his beer. The back room of the the McAvery Bar was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the timeworn whitewash and dingy tables. Steve had sought out this particular establishment for its privacy, hiding the room's three occupants in a shaded back room away from any prying eyes.

"I won't lie to you. What we're doing isn't legal. We'll be outside of the law on this one. No backup, no friends in high places. Just the three of us." Steve admitted. Tony frowned down at his sherry, and Clint scowled at Tony. Not exactly the atmosphere of collaboration he had anticipated.

"Bottoms up, then!" Tony gave Steve a wry smile and lifted his glass in a toast. The room was completely quiet, save the steady drip of the sink in the far corner. Steve's confident grin began to sag.

Silence reigned for another moment before Tony rounded on Clint so quickly his drink splashed on his sleeve. "You might as well spit it out, Barton. No sense to just sit there and brood."

"What? I'm all peaches and sunshine, thank you very much. It's not like your Nazi pals killed most my friends on the _Reuben James,_ or that their allies are picking off the ones left. Why wouldn't I be in a good mood?" Clint growled, eyes flashing. Steve looked away, unwilling to intervene as Tony spluttered with anger.

"You think that's _my_ fault? Are you that dim-witted –"

"Enough," Steve intoned, but Clint leaped to his feet before he could end the tirade.

"Maybe I am! Maybe I am so stupid to think that you could have told your buddies in Berlin our course! It wouldn't exactly be a departure from the trend, would it?" Tony's eyes blazed, but he held his tongue as Clint jabbed a finger down at him. "Haven't got much to say now, have you?"

"Clint, I think that's enough." Steve stood, and Clint took a step back. Tony shot him a glare of pure malice before turning his nose up.

Barton crossed his arms, glowering down at Tony as he spoke. "Go ahead and ask him, Steve. Ask him if he's still dealing with them anymore."

Turning to Tony, Steve took in a slow breath before speaking. "Tell him, Stark."

Tony paled, fixing another weak smile on his face. "Well, not so much anymore..."

" _Anymore?_ " Clint thundered, and Steve gave him a sharp look.

Waving off the exclamation, Tony crossed his legs and sat back in his seat. "You want the truth, Rogers? I'll tell you the truth. The Russians were my prime candidate before they tried to do me in," he began, and Clint muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like _I don't blame them,_ "so then they were out of the question. I've been working with the Germans for a bit now, but they just threatened me too! I'm out of the business now, for your information. And that's all there is." He angled his chin up at Steve and Clint as if daring them to challenge him.

"That's all there is, huh? You were working with the Krauts!" Clint gawked at Tony's serene expression with shock plastered across his features.

"Yes, and they were decent business partners. Your point?" Tony replied primly.

Steve forced his way between the two, extending a placating hand in both directions. "Okay, let's take a step back. Tony, you said you're not working with them anymore, right?"

"Correct. I left a bit of nasty business behind, I'll tell you that. But I'm clean now."

"I don't work with traitors. Count me out." Clint shouldered his way past Steve and started for the door, but he grabbed the sailor's arm and pulled him back.

"Just hear me out, Barton. Please? Just a few minutes." Steve pleaded, and Clint released a short sigh through his nose.

"Fine. But just for you, Steve." He sat heavily in a nearby chair, anger darkening his twisted expression.

Steve closed his eyes and collected himself for the briefest second, then turned back to the dim room. "To be frank, I need your help. Captain America is a joke. All I wanted to do was serve, and I know I'm not going to be able to if things continue like they are. I'm taking matters into my own hands."

"That's all well and good, but where do we come in?" Tony asked, and Steve nodded at him.

"I'm getting to that. One of my friends is an airman stationed in England with the RAF. He's informed me about the operations they're running with the C-47s and the stockpiling he's been seeing in southern England. His best bet is a cross-Channel invasion. And we're going to be part of it." It had taken weeks of prying and weaseling to get the barest scraps of information out of Bucky in their many exchanged letters, and Steve felt somewhat treasonous walking around with such private information.

Steve could tell this had piqued both Tony and Clint's interests – the former looked like he was halfway through the process of scheming up the invasion himself, and the latter's eyes lit up with a wild sort of excitement. "From what Bucky's told me, I know where we can find a plane to give us a ride to the coast. That's about it for now. It's not the most fleshed-out plan, I know, but I figured we could work things out as we go along."

Clint whistled, long and low. "That's a helluva plan, _Captain_. I like it. But where do we come in?"

"Tony, you're the best mechanic in the business. You can bet we're going to be up against the greatest machines in the war, and we're going to have to drive some of them, too. I need you around to keep things running smoothly."

Stark preened for a moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. "A reckless mission into the heart of Europe, packed with certain danger? I'm in. Anything to get out of here."

"Clint, I've known you since the beginning of my journey. You're a solid man and a good soldier, and I need you around to watch our backs and keep us out of too much trouble."

Clint reached forward and pumped Steve's hand. "It would be an honor." His gaze drew back to Tony for a moment, unsure, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You sure about keeping him around?"

"I'm sure," Steve nodded. Clint shrugged and raised his beer in a mock toast, downing the drink in a single gulp.

"So where's the rest of the plan? I'm not too keen on leaping into Europe with a blindfold on, if you understand what I'm saying." Tony mused.

Eyes flashing to the closed doors of the room, Steve dropped his voice and moved in closer to the two men before him. "Once we've made it to our destination -"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Tony held up a hand, "You don't even know where we're going to land?"

Steve flushed slightly, wishing he had more concrete information to provide. "Calais or Normandy. That's all I can confirm right now."

"You're lucky my common sense isn't getting the better of me right now. Keep going," Clint grinned.

Reaching into his back pocket, Steve unfolded a world map he had brought from the nearby corner drugstore. Its folded creases stretched to reveal foreign countries and hostile waters, crisscrossed by faint submarines and airship routes and checkered neatly from row to row. "We get a ride to England, I know the base. Buck will have our ride waiting for us. Then it's just a hop, skip and a jump into Germany."

"You make it sound so easy," Clint leaned over his shoulder, peering at the countries with narrowed eyes. "But Tony and I aren't in the Army. We don't have any unit to report to."

Steve shook his head, one finger tapping against the jagged outline of the French coastline. "No units this time. We'll be freelance soldiers."

"I'm all for sudden death and danger, but this is a little too hands-off for my liking. We have no plan whatsoever? No objective? No exit strategy?" Tony's brow furrowed as he surveyed the map with a sour look on his face. He had every right to - half of the countries in view probably wanted him dead for some reason or another.

Palms up, Steve offered him a sympathetic shrug. "We leave when the fighting's done."

"Then we'll be there forever, Rogers."

"I don't care. I'm in." Clint leaned back on his heels, a familiar fire leaping back into his eyes. "I'm going to get into so much trouble for this."

"Don't worry about your superiors. I'll handle them," Steve waved his hand, and Clint whistled again.

"Friends with connections, I like it."

Steve turned to Tony, whose eyes were still locked on the map. He wondered if he was already drawing out plans of attack and strategy on the unmarked surface, unwilling to relinquish order and control. "What about you, Tony? Can I count you in on this?"

"Ah, damn this all to hell," Tony shook his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I'm going to hate myself for this, but I'm in."

Grinning broadly, Steve settled back in his chair. For the first time in years he felt the same enthusiasm he had experienced before every enlistment opportunity, the call of battle, the yearning for purpose. He was so close he could _taste_ it. Eyes alight and heart pounding, Steve traced the faded blue of the map's British Channel with his index finger.

 _Soon,_ he reassured himself as he looked up at his small squad, all illuminated by the same burning motivation. _I'll be there soon._

 _(Can't wait to get into the action! Thanks as always for reading!)_


	35. Overlord

_"Soldiers, sailors and airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!_

 _You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade,_

 _toward which we have striven these many months..._

 _I have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in battle._

 _We will accept nothing less than full victory!_

 _Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of the Almighty God_

 _upon this great and noble undertaking."_

 _\- Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of SHAEF_

* * *

 _Spanhoe Airfield, Northamptonshire; June 6, 1944_

Spanhoe airfield sat shrouded in a film of inky twilight, the massive forms of C-47s looming above Steve and Bucky's heads. The two crouched beneath the wings, waiting for the MPs on patrol to walk by their plane before they continued on their route to the far edge of the field. The sheer numbers of paratroopers and Army brass and RAF flyers disguised them just as well, but Steve couldn't accept even the slightest risk of being spotted. His face was smeared with black tar he had picked up from one of the airborne troopers made Captain America just another soldier.

His uniform felt baggy and strange, with thick fabric that didn't let in a breath of air. Bucky explained that this was to protect him from gas attacks from the enemy, which was a strange way to reassure someone about to jump into occupied territory. Weapons and other tools had been scrounged up from the troops – an entrenching tool, a pack of cigarettes Steve had pawned off for a pocket knife and a rosary from a Navy man ("Take it, go on, you'll need all the help you can get out there"), and a strange contraption called a leg bag stuffed with all manner of wartime material. He probably weighed twice what he would have in normal clothes.

Tony and Clint were similarly outfitted, their helmet straps dangling from their fingers as they chatted with a cluster of soldiers nearby. Bucky's scavenging had worked out flawlessly – they both looked like bona fide paratroopers, blending in seamlessly with the crowd. Every so often their eyes would flicker to the crouched form of a C-47 pulled to the side of their airfield, and Steve had to force himself to not stare at the plane as well.

"Her inner mechanisms are horribly scrambled, all the engineers can't make any sense of them," Bucky explained beneath his breath as the circle of a flashlight meandered by them. "Worst damn mechanical error to ever come out of American factories, or so I say. If your man can fix her up fast, you'll be able to get out." His eyes dropped to his shoes, scanning the scuff marks with a dark sort of intensity. "Are you sure about this, Steve?"

"I'm sure, Buck. It's my turn to give back now. I need to do this." Steve sat back on his heels, watching as Clint and Tony disengaged from the group of troopers and started meandering over to the broken plane.

"It's just – be safe out there, won't you? I would hate to see you be another casualty of this war. The Japs, the Krauts, they've taken enough from us already. I don't want to lose you."

Steve clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder and grinned. "Who would have thought? Two kids from Brooklyn halfway around the world."

"Breaking the law together, just like old times." Bucky smiled roguishly, and Steve rolled his eyes.

"We hopped the turnstile once!"

"I'll never let you hear the end of it."

Steve's gaze trailed back to the plane, and he saw Clint standing in the open doorway with his shoulder pressed against the edge of the door. Tony was nowhere to be seen, most likely in the bowels of the plane working his magic, but the metal structure was still lifeless.

From the opposite end of the field, the first C-47 sputtered to life. The grounds were stuffed full of troops and supplies, lorries darting on the edges and Jeeps dodging between the planes, one rising buzz of activity that was climbing toward a roar. Bucky shook his hand and vanished in a flash, back to his official duties. Steve hadn't even gotten to thank him.

He leaped to his feet and pressed his way into the swarms of soldiers, dodging machine gun parts and reckless drivers and troopers on their way to the bathroom for the hundredth time. The waiting was interminable, the anticipation palpable as he pushed through the throng. Years of training building up to one night. Questions flew through Steve's mind as he felt the weight of the three rifles shift against his shoulder blades. _Can I really kill someone? Can I do this? What was I thinking?_

In the distance, the right propeller of the broken C-47 twitched.

Muttering his apologies, Steve used his elbows to work his way through the crowd. Streams of cigarette smoke rose in white tendrils to the sky. Mountains of supplies stood piled left and right. The sputter of an engine sounded, and Steve knew that somehow Tony had gotten the plane to work. A thrill of adrenaline rushed through him – their plan had worked, they hadn't been spotted, they were on their way to fight, to _freedom –_ and he didn't notice the woman standing in front of him until he nearly ran into her.

"Captain America. Fancy meeting you here." Agent Carter's red lips twisted up into a wry smile, her hands folded across her chest. Steve froze, his heart thumping in his chest as he looked down at the British officer. Behind Carter, the C-47's engine coughed. _So close._

"Might I ask what you're doing here? According to your schedule, you should be in Florida right now."

Steve cleared his throat. "I-I'm going to fight, Agent Carter. I'm going to serve."

Her expression softened, her gaze more tender than he had ever seen before. Confusion flickered across her face, disguised by a quick smile. "What do you mean? And why on earth are you dressed that way?"

"I'm going in, ma'am. I'm jumping with the troops tonight."

"Nonsense," Carter shook her head, short curls bobbing up and down in her refusal. "You don't even know how to use a parachute! You're a showboy!"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I've wanted to be an airman since the war began. I know how to work a parachute. Please, I'm begging you. Just let me do my part in this war!"

"But you have done your part." She placed a hand on his arm, fingers tightening on the loose fabric. Her nails were painted a bright red, somehow unchipped and glossy. "Some of us have different parts to play in this war, Steve. Some of us fight, and some of us sell war bonds. That's just how it is!"

"Not for me." Steve straightened his shoulders, glancing up to see Clint waving at him in the doorway. Time was running out. "Doctor Erskine made me as a weapon, Agent Carter. I'm not going to let him down by not fighting. _This_ is my purpose."

Carter dropped her head, the first time she had avoided meeting his eyes. A bitter laugh followed as she turned the toe of her shoe into the loose gravel. "You're right, of course. You're always right. Must you always be so _perfect,_ Steve Rogers?"

Reaching up on tiptoe, she planted a light kiss on his cheek. Steve's face warmed and he fought a grin from his face as Carter straightened the front of his uniform. A flush of pink rushed across her cheeks and she stepped away, observing him with pride in her eyes.

"Ready to go?"

"You're not going to stop me?" Steve was shocked. If Colonel Philips had caught him sneaking onto the front lines he would be stuck in an office doing clerical work for the duration of the war. Wasn't Carter going to try to keep him back?

"You're a good man, Steve. You're a good soldier. Give them hell for me, will you? And it's Peggy to you now." She saluted him crisply, chin lifted and eyes bright, and he thought he saw the glimpse of a tear in her eye. Agent Carter - _Peggy_ \- standing proud before him. His heart twisted with a foreign emotion, something that clutched his throat and heart and filled his head with a bubbly exuberance. The scream of the engines rose to an even greater height, buffeting Steve with gusts of wind as the planes began to load up. The jumpmasters hollered to their troops, organizing the men in rows beneath the wings.

When Steve looked back to find Peggy again she was gone in the crowd. The phantom of her lips burned on his cheek like a signal flare.

Turning back to his own plane, Steve saw Tony and Clint waiting for him in the doorway. Tony nodded his head in satisfaction and Clint was grinning like a madman. A bolt of horror shot through Steve – had they seen his encounter with Agent Carter? _No, Peggy._

No time to worry about that now. The first plane taxied away from the field, the first point in the V-of-Vs, and Steve ran the length to the plane and clambered in. Clint slugged him on the arm and raised his eyebrows toward the crowd, mouthing something unintelligible over the roar of the engines. Tony clambered into the cockpit, starting up the astrodome that showed pinpricks of light for each plane on the airfield. As Steve strapped himself into his seat beside Clint, his stomach a mass of nerves and excitement and a thousand other emotions, he realized that this was his purpose. He had never been more ready for anything in his entire life.

 _Then why am I afraid?_

-o0o-

The lull of the engine nearly drowned out the grinding of the door as Tony emerged from the cockpit. His hand latched onto the parachute line extending to the back of the plane, where they would hook up to jump from the plane. Sitting beside Steve with arms crossed, Clint dozed in the gentle lull of the plane buffeted by the winds.

Steve jolted upright, eyes flashing back to the cockpit. "Did Jarvis take control?" The thought of a machine flying the plane instead of a person still unnerved Steve slightly, but Tony shrugged and gave him an easy smile.

"Figured I'd give him a whirl at this old bird. Barton's sacked out?"

"He's been asleep for an hour. Did you get a look at the view?" Steve hollered above the roar of the wind and pointed to the door. Tony edged forward, careful to keep a firm grip on the rail as he leaned forward to glance outside the open door. Steve couldn't resist taking another look as he flattened himself on the floor, elbows dangling over empty space as he stared down at the English Channel below.

There were so many ships in the water the sea seemed to be made solely of white, churning wakes: lines of LSTs and Higgins boats and every craft imaginable, bristling with guns and tossing the sea into waves of crashing foam. The boats seemed to stretch on for an eternity, made distant by the haze of clouds and the drone of the airplane engines silencing the sounds of the shifting sea.

"Amazing, huh?" Steve asked, looking back at Tony's shocked expression.

"Incredible," his lips formed the word, too quiet to be heard over the engines.

A bank of clouds swept over the plane, and Tony hurried back to the cockpit. Steve was reluctant to remove himself from his position at the door, but the red warning light clicked on above his head. _Ready to jump._

Leaping to his feet, Steve walked to the seats and shook Barton awake. The sailor looked up at him blearily, then noticed the glare of the red light and jumped upright. They examined each other's equipment for a minute, tugging on the parachute to make sure it was secure, fingers brushing over the seams of the reserve chute. A thrill of dread ran down Steve's spine when he remembered real paratroopers had practice jumps before this day. He hardly knew how to land properly!

"Okay?" Clint shouted in his ear, and Steve nodded. Flashing a thumbs-up, Clint hooked up to the rail behind Steve. Steve's carabiner clicked in and he leaned forward on his toes to look outside the door. The clouds were so thick he could hardly see.

The engines stalled for the slightest moment, long enough for Steve to hear Tony's "Holy shit!" from the cockpit, and the plane entered the full assault of Hitler's Atlantic Wall.

Flak tore through the skies, thick enough to walk on. Tracer fire danced in every color imaginable, painting the sky in a rainbow of brilliantly colored beams. Massive light fixtures danced as they probed the sky, glancing off of the wings of Allied planes. Looking to his right, Steve saw a massive 88 shell tear through the engine of a plane, which burst into a wash of flames that engulfed the interior compartments. Tongues of flame danced from the shattered windows as a fireball shredded the plane, sending its shattered shell in a screaming course for the Norman countryside.

"Oh, God!" Clint hollered, and Steve fished the Navy man's rosary from his pocket. His fingers danced across the beads, murmuring every prayer he could scrounge from his memory as the wave of artillery drew ever nearer. His blood turned cold as he watched parachutes bloom from planes above him, below him, their pilots tearing through the sky at unearthly speeds. Any precision begun on the mainland was obliterated. As Steve watched, a paratrooper was snagged on the wing of a C-47 and hung there, limbs flapping helplessly.

A tapping on his shoulder pulled Steve back to the plane, and he turned to see Clint pointing toward his hand. The rosary was clutched in his fist, knuckles white and purpling from his vice grip on the beads. "Lend a buddy your rosary, will you? I'm gonna set the fuckin' speed record on that thing."

Steve handed over the rosary without another word, fingernails digging into his palms. The tension was unbearable, waiting to jump into this hell full of German flak and fire and the stench of death. A series of tracers sped directly in front of Steve, and a spatter of bullet holes exploded next to his left foot. The plane bobbed to the right, its nose dipping dangerously low as the engine spluttered and heaved. When Steve looked out the left window, he saw a plume of fire rocket across the wing.

Tony stumbled from the cockpit, his helmet gone and his left eye curtained with blood. "We're hit!" he shouted, eyes wild as he observed the massive fireworks display outside. The carriage of the plane rattled and Steve flinched at what sounded like rocks scattering across the aluminum beneath him. Wasting no time, Tony ran behind Clint and hooked up as the C-47 wobbled in its death throes.

The jump light was shattered and the ground rapidly approaching – Steve knew he had to jump. The toes of his boots dangled over the open space, wind ripping at his clothes and his helmet. His palms were pressed flat against the outside of the plane, body leaning forward toward a wall of exploding ammunition and enemy territory...

And he jumped.

 _(We made it to D-Day! I'm so excited for these upcoming chapters and would love to hear your thoughts so far!)_


	36. Day of Days

_"It was so savage. We were savages..._

 _We had all become hardened. We were out there, human beings,_

 _the most highly developed life form on the earth,_

 _fighting each other like wild animals."_

 _\- E. B. Sledge_

* * *

 _Undisclosed location, Normandy; June 6, 1944_

Clint was falling.

There was a faint whistling sound buzzing in his ears, but the shells were silent as they rocketed to his left and right. Spiraling trails of smoke and brilliant tracer fire painted the sky in every color imaginable, the most magnificent light show he had ever seen. From everywhere in the sky there was a paratrooper, what seemed like thousands of chutes drifting down toward the French countryside. Planes zoomed silently over his head, leaving behind trails of popping parachutes.

It was beautiful in a heart-stopping way. Clint's chest throbbed with suspense and exhilaration as he drifted, fingers clenched around the ropes of his parachute. In the distance and rapidly drawing nearer was a citadel and a massive fire, and he swung his body to the side in an attempt to move away from both. A breath of wind ruffled his chute and brought him away from the town – he breathed a sigh of relief at that, Steve had been carrying all of their tools and he didn't want to enter a fight without a weapon – but when he looked down he noticed the ground was rapidly approaching.

Everything jolted into focus at that moment, the exploding shells splitting like thunderclaps, the slow _chug-chug_ of machine guns and small-arms fire, the whispers of the wind. Desperation flooded Clint's mind as he approached the marshy ground. What had Steve said about landing? Did he fall over and bend his knees, or did he bend his knees and then fall? Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint braced himself for impact as he reached the ground.

Immediately he was plunged into muddy water, his parachute draping over his head as his whole body was submerged. Clint kicked away from the ground, tangling his legs in the ropes of his parachute and reserve chute. He dragged himself up with his arms, sucking in a deep and spluttering breath through the silk parachute that covered the water. Immediately he was dragged back under, the weight of his supplies and the water pulling him back. His boots sunk into the loose mud, sticking tight when he tried to yank them free.

Panic overtook him and he shouted with all his might, bubbles flooding from his mouth as he clawed at the water around him, anything to get him free from this death trap. His legs were tied fast, his boots stuck and his body enshrouded by the parachute that had delivered him into his personal hell. Water gushed into his mouth, filling his lungs as he struggled under the water, unable to take a breath.

Clint's thrashing slowed, and he forced himself to think. Surely he was carrying something that could help him get out of here. His fingers brushed over the pockets in his new uniform, feeling the shape of K rations and Gammond grenades but nothing else. At last he reached to his boot, where the slender form of a bayonet was nested in his sock.

He nearly cried with joy as he dragged the bayonet out and forced the point through the center of the largest rope. Tugging the weapon down the length of the cord, he pulled the two sides apart. The ropes split and Clint kicked his legs free, yanking his parachute straps from his body. Lungs aching, he paddled for the surface of the water.

Clint's head broke water and he dragged in a rasping breath, chest heaving as he pulled himself onto the bank. The parachute floated like a fallen bird in the middle of the scummy water, drifting below the surface and out of sight.

"Good riddance," Clint growled, getting to his knees. He scanned the area around him, straining to hear any sound that might disguise a Kraut soldier or hostile enemy, but only the crackling of the village fire and the rustling of nature sounded back. Fishing in one of his pockets, he pulled out one of Tony's many gadgets he had prepared for the trip. As much as he despised that kid's attitude, he was pretty clever.

Clint fixed the device around his ear, flicking the switch that activated the secure signal. A burst of quiet static followed, replaced by a pleasant hum. "Anyone around?"

"Barton, is that you?" Steve's voice hissed back. The radio connection was weak to avoid detection, so Steve sounded like he was calling to Clint from the end of a hallway. "Where are you?"

"I landed in a river, I think," Clint whispered back. "Where are _you_? I need one of those guns."

"Tell me about a landmark near you."

Glancing up, Clint watched as the village fire sent a massive plume of smoke billowing in the air. "I can see smoke from that fire in the town we passed coming in. It's to my right, northeast. What about you?"

The line was quiet for a moment, and Steve responded grimly, "I'm in that village."

"Holy shit! Get out of there!" Tony interjected. "Steve, I'll try to find my way to you. Barton, How did you end up so far from the town?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Clint growled. "Look, I'll make my way to the town too. Stay safe, Steve."

"Roger that," Steve replied, and a faint clicking alerted Clint that he had deactivated his earpiece.

"I think he means Rogers that." Tony quipped, and Clint tugged the device from his ear to shut it off.

-o0o-

The river, which according to a nearby sign was the Merderet, receded into the distance as Clint hiked in the general direction of the unknown town. He figured he was probably heading back toward the beach, which meant reinforcements and more Allied soldiers, so he was all too happy to hightail it back to the shore.

Nevertheless, he couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation that followed him as he stumbled through the Norman countryside. Surrounded by trees, totally alone, it seemed that any patch of shadows could hide a German battery. Clint gripped his bayonet and steeled himself on, scanning the brush around him as he crept forward.

"Typical," he muttered as he slid down a short embankment, "They send you off with a dinner knife to go fight the Krauts. This is why I joined the Navy!"

A rustling distracted him from his thoughts and he turned to the right, arm already swinging for the strike. A hand caught his arm and wrenched him to the ground, and Clint spat out a mouthful of dirt as his assailant planted his knee in his back and pulled his arm around.

"Flash!"

"What the hell?" Clint hollered. "Flash, your ass! Get off me!"

There was a brief pause and the soldier eased his grip, allowing Clint to roll over. Two bright eyes stared back at him, the rest of his attacker's face concealed by dark face paint. He was young, with jump wings fixed on his uniform and an American flag sewn onto his sleeve.

"You didn't give me the code word!" The soldier exclaimed as if Clint had done him a personal wrong.

Nursing his twisted arm, Clint got to his feet and spat. "What code word?"

"I say flash, you say thunder. Your CO didn't give you the notice?" The soldier brushed off his knees and offered a hand to Clint. They stood and sized each other up, thrilled in the general _we've both made it this far_ sense.

"The name's Haley. You're with the 82nd?" He pointed at Clint's uniform.

"Um, yes," It would be easier to stick with his lie than explain his predicament, "Clint Barton." They shook hands, and the soldier looked down at Clint's bayonet.

"You don't have a gun either? I'll bet your CO didn't give you a cricket, too. You got a death wish?"

Clint didn't even want to ask what a cricket was at this point. "You've got that right. Look, where is everyone?"

"I've got no idea. I'm with the 101st. This isn't even our drop zone!" The kid shook his head, confusion etched across his young face. "You're the first guy I've seen yet."

"Same here. Look, I'm meeting up with some people in that town I saw flying in. You know how to get there?"

The soldier reached into his front pocket, pulling out a map. The fabric was made of silk, fitting loosely over his hands as he spread it across the ground. "You mean Saine-Marie-Eglise? There's a road just west of here that crosses it. I'll take you there, I've got nothing better to do. Haven't found a single person yet from Dog Company."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Clint said absently. It was the sort of thing he might say at home in the States, so ingrained in his brain he couldn't help it. Here he was in Normandy, thanking an eighteen-year-old paratrooper for directions to an invaded town. _Times change, I guess._

They traipsed through the woods for a quiet minute before the trees leveled out into furrowed farmland. Big-eyed Norman cows watched the two soldiers as they passed, chewing their cud with an innocent placidity. Gunfire sputtered ahead, the booming distant sounds of the large guns in more forward positions toward the beach. Clint held his bayonet at the ready, not that it would do much damage if they stumbled across any Krauts. Haley's rifle was slung across his back, but his eyes scanned the darkness around them with a practiced air. His fist leaped into the air, fingers clenched in a fist, and he lowered to the ground until he knelt crouching in the damp grass. Clint followed suit, watching as the boy swung his M1 around into his hands and flicked the safety off, loading the rifle with a sharp _click-click!_

As quickly as he had leaped into action, Haley relaxed and stood. His rifle hung loose by his side as he offered Clint a hand up, smiling as nothing had happened.

"These hedgerows are nasty. Built-in forts for the Jerries. Can't blame a guy for being too cautious, can I?"

He was right about the hedges – Clint had never seen one so massive in his entire life. The shrub had group upwards of eight feet, arching over the top to meet the opposite hedge astride the lane. The foliage was so dense Clint couldn't force his arm through, and Haley had to use his entrenching tool to dig them a route underneath. The dirt caked on Clint's dripping clothes, only making him filthier than he was before. The two emerged on the road to the town, elevated above the floodplain of the Merderet headed back toward the beaches.

They hadn't walked two steps when a burst of small-arms fire sent Haley scrambling for cover. Clint dove off of the road and rolled down into the ditch, forcing his body into the dirt as bullets whizzed over his head. To his right, Haley poked his head up from his position and returned fire. A smattering of shots followed, and Clint risked a glance up to see dark figures retreating back the way they had come. One enemy soldier, most likely crazed by the stress of the battle, sprinted directly towards Clint.

A shot from the M1 sent the Kraut spinning, but he kept going with Teutonic resolve. Stumbling down the short embankment toward the hedgerow, he slipped and fell beside Clint. They stared at each other for a moment, one with chest heaving a blood blooming across his uniform, the other silent as he forced his bayonet into the Kraut's heart. His wheezing breaths were silenced, and Clint felt something warm and wet trickle over his hand. Haley's gun chattered in response, seeming distant to Clint's ears as he sent the remaining Germans running.

Emerging from the protection of the road, the paratrooper looked down at Clint and the fallen German. "Is he dead?"

"Think so."

"Let's get a move on, then. I want to get to the city before daybreak."

Clint paused for a moment, wiping his bayonet down on the grass. He turned back to the soldier and closed his eyes, then jumped to his feet and hurried after Haley on the road to Saint-Marie-Eglise. Above, the sky was brightening with the new dawn.

Clint welcomed it. Whatever good old Adolph could throw his way, he would meet with open arms. He was ready.

 _((Hope you all had a happy thanksgiving! We've hit D-Day!))_


	37. Reunion

_"There but for the grace of God go I."_

 _\- John Bradford, as quoted by Arthur "Dutch" Schultz_

* * *

 _Saint-Marie-Eglise; June 7, 1944_

The grinding of machinery wheels and the footsteps of soldiers trampled in the distance. The movements of the impending German counterattack had already gained the attention of the 82nd Airborne's impromptu headquarters in Saint-Marie-Eglise, morning beams of sunshine glinting off of the ruins from the fire and the bullet holes glancing off of the stone structures in the town. A nervous energy hung loose in the air, drifting with the wind. Raw anticipation kept Steve's nerves on edge.

Damp dew sunk into the elbows of his uniform as he crouched low in an apple orchard a short way from the town. At the end of the row, a thick hedge rose like a monolith blocking Steve's view. He tightened the focus on his binoculars, the lenses clicking and zooming to sharpen the image before his eyes. The leaves remained stubbornly dense, like trying to peer through a brick wall.

Frustrated, Steve set his binoculars aside and picked up his notebook. The pages were smudged from his damp fingerprints, but he carefully penciled in the locations of the voices he had heard. He knew the make of the German Tiger tank from the sound of its treads, and had calculated its acceleration in the margins of his paper. Before him lay a precise map showing where the Germans were accumulated.

A spatter of fire tore his focus back to the hedgerow, and he flattened himself against the earth for fear he had been spotted. Sharp commands in stilted German reached his ears and he extended his hand for his M1, gripping the barrel and drawing the rifle close. He rested the metal against his shoulder, measuring his line of sight and aiming near the bottom of the hedgerow. Not a leaf twitched.

A second burst of gunfire sounded, followed by the rushing of the wind. Silence. Steve took this as his cue to head back to the CP, head ducked low as he sprinted across the level ground of the orchard back towards the town.

He was unchallenged in his dash through enemy territory, and when he reached the command post he realized that Lieutenant Wray had beaten him to it. The stocky soldier stood with blood streaked down the front of his coat and his neck, looking irritated and stern as he reported his own intel to Lieutenant Colonel Vandervoort. A map of the area around Saint-Marie-Eglise was marked up with pencil, and Wray was pointing out the areas where he had detected a heavy concentration of Germans.

"They've been getting kind of close to you, haven't they?" Steve noted, and Wray gave him a grim smile.

"Not as close as I've been getting to them. What did you find?"

They compared notes, and Vandervoort's aide dutifully added Steve's submissions to the map in crisp pencil marks. A mortar crew stood by at the ready, their necks straining so they could see over Wray's broad soldiers where they would be firing. Eager eyes shone behind their smeared war paint.

"They're in slit trenches here and here," Wray pointed out. "Saw 'em myself."

"What happened to staying at a safe distance, Lieutenant?" Vandervoort muttered, although his polite frown didn't quite reach his eyes. His leg, bound in a cast from when he broke it in the jump, was propped up level with the table.

"I couldn't resist, sir," Wray saluted, about-faced, and marched out of the CP with the dignity of Eisenhower himself.

"Boys, follow Rogers out and hit the coordinates he tells you hard. Dismissed," Vandervoort sent them off with a wave of his hand and a smile, and the mortarmen followed Steve out giddily as they hoisted their tools to chest height.

Steve followed the route around the town until he was square with the German flank, his eyes trained on the map and on the boys following him. Their 60-millimeter mortar was dug into place in minutes while Steve traced the lanes where he and Wray had agreed on German defenses. Wray waited behind him with elements of D Company prepared to attack.

"Take these lanes and hedgerows," Steve traced and reported the coordinates to the mortar crew, who nodded their acknowledgment and loaded their shells.

"Fire at will!" Wray called, and the soldiers covered their ears as the shells exploded from the mortar pipe. Earth bloomed into the air like fountains as American artillery tore into the German position, screams audible even from the distance. The shells landed with deadly precision, splitting the air like a thunderclap with every blast, and D Company charged into the hedgerows to mop up what was left of the German defense. The whirlwind of activity seemed to pass by in seconds, but the sun was halfway up its track to the noon sky when the small-arms fire stopped.

Pleased with themselves, the mortar boys exchanged cigarettes and handshakes. Wray clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder and nodded approvingly. "Good work, sir."

"Lieutenant," Steve saluted and Wray nodded again, jogging off to the hedgerows to assess the damage of his counterattack. A stream of soldiers trickled out of the maze of hedgerows, many leading prisoners in German uniforms before them. Steve watched them pass, the paratroopers beaming and triumphant, the Germans with bowed heads and derision in their eyes.

"Let go of me, you coward! Once I get my rifle you're a dead man, you loathsome, disgusting piece of –"

"Captain!" A red-faced paratrooper approached him, dragging another young man in an American uniform before him at rifle-point. The latter didn't seem too happy about the arrangement, his face unrecognizable behind the mud and dirt smeared across his features. "I found this man in the orchard and he didn't know the clicker identification method. I am submitting him for your review, sir!"

"You think he's a spy?" Steve raised his eyebrows, and the soldier jerked his chin up and down.

"Yes, sir. I found this device on him." The paratrooper dangled a curving device from his fingers, tangled wires and crushed plastic hanging between his fingers. It appeared oddly familiar.

"Spy, my ass! Look, Captain, you gotta..." The soldier's jaw dropped, his eyes widening as he jumped forward and grabbed onto Steve's sleeves. Swearing profusely, the paratrooper unslung his rifle from his back and aimed it at the man's head.

"Steve Rogers, is that you?"

Steve studied the man's face behind the mask of grime, and his face broke into a grin. "Clint Barton?"

"God, am I glad to see you!" Clint laughed, then turned back to the paratrooper, whose rifle was wavering from its position near his head. "At ease, hotshot."

"You're dismissed, private." Steve nodded, and the soldier lowered his firearm. Turning back to Clint, Steve took in his ragged appearance. "What happened to you? You're not hurt, are you?"

"Fit as a fiddle, no thanks to trigger-happy over there," Clint shrugged. "I nearly drowned in the Merderet – more of a lake than a river, really. Had just met up with this guy from the 101st when all hell broke loose in the field we were crossing." He said this all as if they were discussing baseball, all cool confidence.

"I'm glad to hear it. I can't believe I found you in the middle of this mess," Steve admitted. "Let's see if we can't find you any new clothes in the CP. You stink to high heaven."

"Funny, I didn't notice."

-o0o-

It was noon when the first rounds of artillery shredded the skies above Saint-Marie-Eglise. Steve and Clint had spent the remainder of their morning catching up about their relative adventures in Normandy and trying to reach Tony on Steve's earpiece radio to no avail, their conversation only interrupted when the shells started to fall. Steve flinched at the percussive blasts which shook stone dust trickling from the ceilings and beams.

"Where could he be?" Clint nudged the earpiece with a still-wet boot. "I'll bet he's fraternizing with his German overlords."

Steve restrained the urge to roll his eyes – were these two going to be bickering for as long as they were in Europe? It was beginning to get on his nerves. "He's a smart guy, he'll find his way around eventually."

"Wonder if he'll find _us,_ though," Clint added. "Remember the guy I told you about who I met up with? He was from a totally different division! This landing's a mess." Another round of shells responded to his affirmation.

"He'll get here."

"Sure, maybe," Clint mused, leaning his chair back on two legs and looking at the ceiling in thought. "I heard some guy say war shows your true colors, and I'll bet you anything his are black and red."

 _((Sorry for a two-days late update! I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!))_


	38. Power Play

_"This war is like an actress getting old._

 _It is less and less photogenic and more and more dangerous."_

 _\- Robert Capa_

* * *

 _St. Lo; July 24, 1944_

The full length of a bangalore torpedo stretched from its fuse near Steve up to the edge of the next hedgerow, an incredible amount of explosives packed into such a small space. Ducked at the waist, a pair of engineers scurried from their positions near the hedgerows and hurried to the side of the Sherman where Steve was perched. The tank's hatch hung open, and the tank commander leaned over the lip to hear Steve's whispered orders.

"Call it, Captain," Clint grinned at him from the ground, and Steve nodded.

"When the hedge blows, drive in quick and send two white phosphorous rounds to the corners. If we have any resistance from the machine-gun pits, light her up. Infantry will follow."

"You got it, Cap," The commander dropped down into the hatch, and Steve swung down from his position on top of the tank. Rumbling and creaking against the slicks of mud staining the ground, the Sherman pulled back and prepared for the blast.

Taking a knee beside the tank, Steve raised an open fist and looked over his shoulder at the engineers. Their gaunt faces stared back at him, expressions blank save a spark of excitement in their eyes as they readied the charges. The eyes of twenty infantrymen were on Steve's hand as he brought it swinging down, signaling the explosives.

Steve and his squad had taken a dozen hedgerows just like this one, but the explosion of the torpedoes still startled him. Shredded foliage went soaring into the sky, dirt forming a geyser of brown that burst above Steve's head and scattered him with damp soil. Not wasting a second, the Sherman roared forward with the sound of a charging animal, its treads plunging through the remnants of the eight-foot-tall hedge. Two sharp cracks sounded as the white phosphorous shells were fired, and twin thuds rattled the ground like a punch to the chest. Instinctively Steve turned up his collar, daring a glance between the shredded edges of the hedges as the white phosphorous engulfed the German defenses.

Flakes of white danced down from the sky, a snowfall in the middle of summer descending on the German embankment, and screams started to rise from the distance as the phosphorous began to burrow itself into any exposed skin. Steve and Clint had been the victims of a white phosphorous attack weeks ago, but the memory was as fresh and painful as ever. He had great sympathy for the Germans crying out from the end of the next row, their flesh burning and clothes sizzling under the relentless heat of the chemicals.

Luckily the white phosphorous was as effective as it was painful. In the weeks of planning hedgerow strategy, Steve had learned two shells was enough to knock out the majority of the German defense.

One of the machine gun nests that had escaped the shells fired against the Sherman, bullets glancing off of the tank's armor and scattering left and right. Steve dropped to his stomach, and the infantrymen followed suit. A spray of fire burst from the Sherman, slicing through the hedge and its base where the Germans were dug in. There was no return fire.

Pulling himself to his knees, Steve snatched his rifle from his side and stood, ordering the men into groups behind him. Resting the stock of the M1 in the crook of his elbow, he edged his way to the hedgerow and ducked, swinging around the corner of the shredded bushes in a crouch. Clint gripped his rifle without apprehension and followed standing, while the rest of their small squad followed guarding their sides. A similar process followed on the other side of the gap.

A helmet was raised from a slit trench at the end of the hedgerow, and Steve raised his closed fist. The soldiers shouldered their rifles, raised but not firing as a boy in a bloodied uniform crawled out of his hiding place, face white from fear and pitted with the telltale red scars from white phosphorous. Tears streamed down his wounded cheeks as he crawled forward, babbling, "Kamerad!"

"Merch, take him back to HQ," Steve called over his shoulder, and a stocky soldier trudged forward to drag the German boy to his feet. The boy was bawling now, from relief or fear Steve couldn't say, but he gave him the most reassuring smile he could muster as the German stumbled past.

They approached the trench in two flanks from both sides, but Steve knew as soon as he looked over the edge there would be nothing to worry about. The agony-crazed Germans who hadn't fled had been killed in the shell blast and the Sherman's machine-gun fire. Their bodies lay prone and twisted in the trench, their last breaths still lingering on their lips.

"Take five, men. We'll settle here and prepare for the next round. Set a defensive perimeter, I want guards on all four corners and three in the trench," Steve pointed out selected soldiers for guard duty and they hurried to their tasks, dragging the German bodies aside so they could install their own defenses. As he turned away to discuss ammunition with the tank commander, Steve caught a snatch of conversation between the infantrymen.

"Should I take their boots? You know their boots are so much better than ours."

"That's kinda morbid. Give him a little respect, huh?"

"You won't be sayin' that when winter comes along."

"No boots for me. Thou shalt not steal, you know? If I die in this mess I don't want any more strikes against me."

-o0o-

Sparks scattered beneath Steve's fingers, cloaked in thick fabric with his face guarded by a sheet of metal and tempered glass. The final toothed edge of the Sherman tank's armament was welded in place, serrated in sharp points angled directly perpendicular to the tank's muddy treads. A private crouched beside Steve with a flashlight between his teeth, ankle-deep in the marshy mud as he rapped a knuckle against the sharp protruding points.

"She'll cut through the hedgerows for damn sure, huh?"

"I hope so," Steve replied, grasping the pointed edge from its dull underside and shaking it from side to side. The metal didn't budge.

"Hey, Rogers! What's this?" Clint called from behind him, and Steve turned to see the sailor holding up the sheets of discarded metal he had been tinkering with in his off-time. In the middle of a frantic war zone, he was surprised by how much time it took to settle down, establish a strong position, continue communication lines and supply chains, and file paperwork. Since he and Clint were in a sort of military limbo, they were largely left to themselves, tagging onto whatever units they pleased. The soldiers were always glad for the help.

Steve flushed, slightly embarrassed at his half-assembled, fantastical project. "Oh, that's just something I was working on. I saw a Nazi machine like this in Italy and thought I might take a stab at it."

"Take a stab at it?" Clint let out a low whistle. "I thought Stark was the mechanic, wherever that poor bastard is. I didn't know you did this kind of work as well."

"It's really nothing –" Steve protested, but Clint held out a hand. Pulling on the curved end of the metal sheets, he snapped the metal bars into place and the full steel wing unfurled, glinting in the dim starlight.

"A flying suit? Imagine that," Clint nodded approvingly, eyeing Steve's slipshod creation with approval. "This is really wild, Rogers. You think it'll work?"

Steve shrugged, slapping his palm against the side of the Sherman. "Can't get anything to power it out here, not when there are tanks to fix. It's just a project, anyways." He pulled a muddy burlap cover over the metal parts and assorted tools, shielding them from the threat of rain and any prying eyes. The clouds hung low over the arching tops of the hedgerows, blocking out the moon in brooding heaps. The night air reeked of cordite and the oncoming storm.

Steve had just set his tools down when a cry of alarm sounded from down the hedgerow, setting his blood afire as he crouched by the treads of the Sherman. The hiss and clank of machinery sounded faintly in the distance, a piercing beam of light swiveling across the pitch-black passage of the hedgerow, and a shout echoed, " _Tiger!"_

Rolling to the side, Steve crawled on his hands and knees to the side of the tank and wedged himself into the roots of the hedgerow, forcing the branches and thick roots aside as he burrowed into a hiding place. Along the hedge other soldiers did the same, seeking shelter wherever they could find it. Looking over his shoulder, Steve saw Clint pressed close to the ground behind him, his mouth drawn in a grim line and eyes narrowed as his searched the darkness for the oncoming German tank.

Tigers were monstrosities, as rare as they were dangerous. Armed with a massive .88 cannon and the fanatical manpower of the Panzerkorps and Waffen SS, the tanks seemed more animal than machine. Twin treads lay beneath six extendable appendages like insect arms, which allowed the tanks to clamber over hedgerows and reach incredible speeds in the narrow Norman countryside. The lashing arms of the tank tore through the middle of the hedgerow as it propelled itself toward Steve's position.

The roar of machinery rumbled forward until it was all Steve could hear, the ground shuddering like an earthquake as the Tiger approached. Its legs stabbed into the ground, sharpened points burying themselves in the slick soil, straining the powerful engine that kept the massive machine running. The plunging legs had impaled more than a few soldiers, and Steve felt a knot of fear rise in his throat at the sound of the sharpened appendages slicing through the arbors.

The Tiger barreled around the corner of the hedgerow, limbs flailing and scrabbling as it skidded through a mud. The front of the tank reared upward in an impression of challenge, a beam of pure white slicing through the inky blackness like a saber. The extending .88 gun swung to and for, dipping from side to side with the Tiger's motion. Legs pitching and weaving, the tank scrabbled forward through the narrow hedgerow. Its treads crashed down as it approached the Sherman tilted to the side of the road.

Steve gritted his teeth and prayed that the American tank appeared to be out of commission. The Tiger stopped dead in front of his position, and he pressed himself deeper into the center of the hedgerow, willing himself to become invisible. The German tank swung its gun around in what seemed like slow-motion, squaring up to the Sherman. Steve risked a glance between his arms and saw the gun staring directly in front of him, and a thunderclap exploded beside him. The Sherman was torn in two in seconds, its top half crashing down onto its ruined chassis. Shrapnel scattered everywhere, flumes of fire bursting into the sky as the Tiger reeled back from its cannon blast.

Lifting itself up again, the Tiger scuttled to the side and charged back the way it had come, leaving the ruined Sherman in its wake. Shaking his head, Steve tried to jolt some hearing back into his left ear as he began to pull himself from the inside of the hedgerow. Clint and the other soldiers followed him, shocked but no worse for wear from the ordeal. Hollers of an all-clear resounded from the end of the row, dim over the crackle of the burning tank.

"Back to the drawing board, Captain," Clint shrugged, kicking his foot against a knot of twisted metal.

"Back to the drawing board," Steve sighed, hoisting his welding tools in preparation for his next project.

 _((An update that's actually on schedule? What a surprise! Thanks for reading!))_


	39. The Shadow of Death

_"All shared a single idea: Out! Out! Out!"_

 _\- Corporal Friedrich Bertenrath, 2nd Panzer Division_

* * *

 _The Falaise Pocket; August 17, 1944_

The low whine of airplane engines turned Tony's blood to ice. Panic tore through his veins and he squinted through the smudged lenses of his gas mask into the dark, forbidding sky, searching for the shape of the oncoming Piper Cubs.

Cubs brought payloads of misery with every sortie they flew over the retreating German Seventh. Looking ahead, Tony could see the craters from a previous hailstorm of bombs. His boots sunk into the blood-slicked mud, the toes of his shoes scuffing against gun barrels and helmets and blown-off limbs. When he first began his trek out of Falaise he had tried to avoid stepping on the bodies. Now he didn't even notice them.

The Allies were bridging the narrowly closing gap between Falaise and Argentan, and the Germans were going to be trapped. Tony was caught up in their same desperation, chilled by their same terror, living their same nightmare. Everywhere was blood and ruin and gore as the enemy advanced every nearer. And still the bombs rained down, every twist in the road revealing another stretch of horror.

Bodies of soldiers and horses lay strewn across the road, some thrown into the muddy trenches where Tony took cover whenever the Cubs swung down for another raid. Many still lay where they fell, mouths open and crawling with insects as they stared up emptily at the same planes that had ended their lives. Tortured screams of beast and master mingled as one. The stench made Tony's eyes water. He had peddled a gas mask from a wide-eyed tanker back on the road and still could hardly dare to take a breath.

The whine rose into a scream as the Piper Cubs wheeled down toward to road, the column of retreating soldiers and machinery an obvious target. Dragging himself to the side, Tony leaped down the short gully into the ditch and covered his head, shrinking beneath the enveloping fabric of his stolen SS uniform. He wished he could take cover under the overcoat, anything to escape the whistling bombs as they plunged through the air. The world hung in suspense, an eerie and peaceful silence as the bombs fell and the world waited to receive their brutality.

Mounds of earth leaped into the air, and Tony pressed his face into the dirt as the ground began to quiver. He was tossed on his side and showered with clods of mud as the world dissolved into darkness and earthquakes and a thousand thunderclaps bursting in his ears. Shrapnel scattered above him, and a sharp blow resounded against his helmet, almost imperceptible in the onslaught of destruction raining down. Drawing his knees to his chest, Tony pulled his body in closer and forced himself to keep it together.

"You just have to think," he whispered, voice too low beneath the deafening explosions to hear the hastily mouthed words, "That's all. The bombs will stop. It all has to end eventually. You are not afraid. You are _never_ afraid."

But it didn't feel like it was ending. The shelling went on and on, every bit of artillery drilling into the earth, aiming for Tony. The _world_ was ending, this was it. He lay in a film of blood in a dead man's uniform with his own countrymen trying to blow him into bits, and he was almost certainly going to die. The facts looked grim.

He only noticed the raid had stopped when the vibrations ceased. Pushing himself up on his elbow, Tony shielded his and brushed a layer of dirt off of his uniform. His joints were stiff and his muscles ached from staying clenched in the fetal position, and his body was battered from the vibrations of the falling bombs. Something warm trickled from his nose and ears, and when he reached up he felt a massive gash torn into the metal of his helmet.

Tears flooded his eyes, blurring the newest scene of carnage for a brief moment of respite. He was alive.

A muffled sound reached his bleeding ears, and knuckles rapped against his helmet. Spinning around, Tony gripped the Luger he kept in his pocket, but his hands were shaking too badly to hold it upright. When he turned he saw another German soldier kneeling beside him, his face smeared with mud and his eyes glinting like shattered glass. His expression was solemn, eyes flicking from the road to the sky and back to Tony again.

"You need to get up. You need to keep moving," he announced in German, distorted as Tony's hearing slowly recovered. "The Americans are coming."

"Good, let them come," Tony groaned, pulling himself to his knees. Every limb screamed in protest, and his body sagged back toward the ground. Why should he repeat the hellish cycle again? Why not just let the Americans take him?

"You're SS, aren't you? They'll shoot you on sight. American dogs," the soldier spat, pulling Tony to his feet by his elbow. "Keep moving. I am Luck, Georg Luck."

"Luck, huh? And where did that get you?" Tony tried for a smile, but he couldn't remember what it felt like anymore. The last two months had worn away that sort of thing.

Luck nodded, donning his gas mask as they stepped back onto the road. The German still guided Tony by the arm, as if he weren't sure the latter could support himself. "Where are you from? You haven't given me your name."

"Stark," Tony replied, and Luck bobbed his head. His eyes still followed their dizzying dance around the road, glancing up at the sky and then meeting Tony's gaze.

"Ah. Like the shells?"

"The shells?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Luck gestured toward a bombed-out tank. Only the treads remained, the rest of the metal peeling away from the center of the machine in a starburst of molten steel. "You know, shells. Artillery. It's all Stark Industries. Nevermind that. Where are you from, Stark?"

"I started in Carentan and I've been on the retreat ever since," Tony admitted, stepping over the shattered remains of an artillery cart. "I was separated from my unit since the beginning... I'm completely lost, Luck."

"Do not worry," the German's eyes glinted from behind the gas mask, a spark of kindness illuminating his features. "You're with me now. You will not be lost again."

-o0o-

Night provided some respite from the constant air assaults. Darkness concealed the worst of the chaos, the grinding of tank treads ceased, and a modicum of peace returned. Tony and Luck continued their marching nonetheless, feet cracked and bleeding and eyes heavy as they squinted to make out obstacles on the road.

"We will stay ahead of them this way," Luck assured Tony, but he agreed to a short break in a bank of apple trees beside the road. The best of the crop had been scavenged by retreating soldiers already, but the two were able to find some edible fruit in the grass. Tony's stomach churned as he tried to force the food down, keeping his eyes off the road and breathing through his mouth. Even the apples had the salty tang of blood on them.

"I haven't seen any of my friends since Carentan," Tony was explaining to Luck. He wasn't sure what was loosening his tongue – sleep deprivation or sheer, pulse-pounding terror, or whatever was in the small flask Luck had shared with him – but for the first time since he had landed in this godforsaken country his limbs were loosening from their tension. "I don't know if I'd even call them friends. I'm pretty sure they both hate me."

"Your comrades hate you? Why?" Luck spun the stem of his apple in a lazy circle. Tony could tell that he was enjoying the pause from their death march, his features silhouetted against a palate of speckled stars.

"One of them thinks I sold his buddies out to the – uh, to the Russians. He thinks I'm a traitor!"

"And are you?" Luck asked simply. Tony was taken aback by the German's bluntness, shock giving way to anger.

"Of course I'm not! He can't even begin to comprehend everything I went through..." Releasing a short breath, Tony rested his head on the grass.

Luck turned to him, one arm resting on the ground and the other supporting his shoulder. His gas mask was off, revealing a drawn frown and furrowed brow. "Why do you speak about your comrades like that?"

"They're not my comrades, okay?" Tony growled, focusing on clearing the dirt from beneath his fingernails. "Just drop it."

"Fine," Leaning back, Luck propped his arms behind his head and stared at the stars. The sky remained undisturbed by the flights of the _Jagdbombers._ It might have been beautiful if Tony's uniform didn't reek of blood, if he couldn't hear the distant screams of soldiers calling for their mothers and the threat of the approaching Americans looming over him like a shadow of death.

"Luck, are you scared?" Tony whispered, pulling his arms closer around him. Although the summer night was warm, a chill rushed through his body as he stared up at the solitary stars.

"Yes, Stark, I am afraid. I am scared out of my mind! Sometimes I think I am going crazy. Tanks driving over men, dead or alive... I've seen so many things I can't even speak about. Death surrounds me, I breathe it, and yet it still terrifies me." He let out a bitter chuckle, then angled his head back to Tony. "What about you?"

"Not me." Tony forced as much bravado as he could muster into his words, and Luck gave him a sad sort of smile.

"One thing I have learned on this road, Stark, is that war always gets the truth out of you. It will come to you yet."

 _((We finally catch up to Tony! I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!))_


	40. Forest Fighting

_"The forest was a helluva eerie place to fight._

 _You can't get protection. You can't see. You can't get fields of fire..._

 _Soon there is only a handful of the old men left."_

 _\- Sgt. George Morgan_

* * *

 _The Hurtgen Forest; October 30, 1944_

"Replacements!"

The daily cry had become routine to Steve. Turning back from his position crouched beneath the trees, he saw the short column of privates streaming into the lines of the veterans of the 28th Infantry. Low-hanging boughs forced the men to stoop at the waist, keeping them low to the ankle-deep mud and the chill of oncoming winter. The privates' eyes were as wide as saucers as they glanced around the alien new world of the Hurtgen Forest, rifles clutched in their hands and trembling. They knew they were here because boys just like them had been mowed down by the German defense, and they were all wondering if they would be next.

Swinging his leg down from a branch, Clint leaped from his forward position on the line and greeted each of the soldiers with a handshake and a strained smile. They seemed relieved at the gesture of friendliness in the face of the empty-eyed veterans. After repeating their names, Clint pointed out towards the German line.

"You're going to need to learn some things about forest fighting, boys. These men have seen a thing or two, and they'll keep you alive if you listen to them. Are you tracking?"

Drawn faced nodded, heads jerking up and down in quick, nervous motions.

"If we're shelled, hug a tree. Branches'll come down and tear you up if you hit the dirt like they taught you back in the States. These trees are your best friend and your worst enemy, got it?"

Wide eyes darted to the line, invisible yet almost tangible in its cruelty and cold horror. The veterans kept their eyes glued on the line, knees deep in the mire and bodies coiled like springs. Clint ducked until his legs balanced on his heels, and the privates followed suit.

"There are mines all around, so wait until the engineers can get up here and sweep. For the love of God, don't get separated from your division. You'll get lost taking a piss out here, these trees block out anything. I don't know what they made me forward observer for, there's nothin' to see!"

This elicited small smiles from the men, and Clint nodded approvingly. "You need anything my name's Barton, got it? And I mean anything. Stay smart, fellas." He clapped one on the shoulder as he started for the nearest senior officer, and Steve got to his feet to walk over to Clint.

"You do a good job with them, you know."

Barton released a slow breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't want to see another man die over stupid stuff. They don't learn anything worth shit in Repple Depple."

"Casualties have gone down," Steve noted, tapping a finger against his pocket where his waterlogged notebook sat. He had been taking down information about every unit he and Clint had joined up with since they had landed in Normandy. Struggling with the 28th through Hurtgen was the bloodiest fighting Steve had ever seen, and it seemed that no endless outpouring of replacements could make up for daily losses. Land gains were measured in yards, every inch of soil watered with American blood.

Worst of all was the forest itself. The trees were so densely wooded light could scarcely filter through, tinting the world in a dark green hue without a slit of sky to be seen. Tank support was impossible, and artillery couldn't be called in because visibility was lower than twenty feet. Steve felt as if he had been thrust into a new world, filled with mines and artillery and mud and an unearthly canopy of green that shielded out any advantage the Americans might have. He was filthy, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to unleash the entirety of his wrath on the German lines.

The forest was taking its toll on the soldiers as well. Cases of trench foot and hysteria climbed as the 28th forced itself through the 'hell with trees,' as Clint had dubbed Hurtgen. There was only so much shelling and torture a man could take, and Steve had seen good soldiers snap before his eyes. Some ran away from the line, and some ran beyond it, plunging into German territory never to be seen again. He and Clint had gotten very good at judging a soldier's mental state, and they both tried their hardest to keep morale as high as possible while the trees seemed to squeeze the air out of a man's lungs.

As much as he insisted he was fine, Steve knew Clint's resilience was wearing thin. He and Barton had been on and off the front lines for upwards of four months, which would be enough to drive an ordinary man to madness. Clint was no ordinary man, but there was a limit to how much he could take, too. Steve had realized through all of this fighting it wasn't a matter of if a man snapped, but when.

-o0o-

The new privates and the veteran soldiers pressed forward, inch by inch, fearing every movement would bring a hail of German firepower onto their heads. It was a surprisingly quiet day for German resistance, other than a smattering of small-arms fire in the morning, and a worried anticipation was building in Steve's chest. He scoured the underbrush for mine traps, searching for the telltale barrels or rifles or the glint of sunlight on artillery outposts. A flurry of whispers reached his ears and he turned to see the new privates standing fully upright on the worn track of a forest trail long gone into disrepair.

The lone sign of civilization elated the newest soldiers, who congregated around the winding, weed-infested dirt like it was their salvation. The realization didn't set in for a long moment and Clint and Steve lunged forward at the same time, arms extended to snatch the privates back from the trail.

"Get back from there!" Steve cried, but his warning came too light as the pre-sighted artillery began to fall. Diving to the side, Steve rolled and snatched the nearest tree trunk he could as explosions pounded in his ears, shell after shell digging into the trail and scattering the privates. Screams warbled above the hiss and thunder of the shells, and the tree shook between Steve's arms as sharpened shards of tree branches scattered about the area. Clenching his teeth, Steve screwed his eyes shut and forced his face against the bark.

Looking up through the dense foliage, Steve could make out the flashes of the artillery shells as they burst from a small embankment mere feet from the path. The Germans had been waiting for them! Anger burned through Steve's blood and he reached down for his satchel. The boys were told it was his radio equipment, but the worn leather housed his iconic shield, smeared with mud and twigs to disguise its bring blue and red accents. Drawing his shield from his pack, Steve got to his knees and started to crawl toward the German position, head ducked as shrapnel and plant matter pinged off of his helmet.

The Germans were concealed in a lone dragon's tooth, sunk into the ground and woven into a net of foliage so thick Steve might have missed it were it not belching fire and smoke down on his men. Barbed wire was netted around the area, and Steve was positive there were mines surrounding the artillery post.

Raising his shield to shoulder height, Steve brought the front of his shield down on the ground with all his strength, bringing the metal up to protect him as the vibrations from the concussion rippled through the ground. At once the mines burst, each triggering another as they popped like firecrackers in the mud. The telltale rattle of metal against his shield told Steve the Germans had wire in S-mines, stuffed with ball bearings and shrapnel that exploded a foot above the ground and blew out knees. The Germans, obviously startled by the sudden explosions, ceased firing to observe their new threat.

Steve didn't grant them that privilege. Swinging around to the back of the dragon's tooth, he forced his shield and shoulder into the concrete door, which splintered away and crashed inward. Four terrified faces stared back at him, and Steve unslung his rifle from his back, pointing the end at each of the Germans' chests.

"Out, now!" he barked, and the soldiers clapped their hands to their helmets. Rifles clattered to the ground as they filed out of their position, leaving their enormous gun behind, its barrel still smoking. Nudging them back toward the road, Steve led the band of Germans back to American lines, where a clump of soldiers stood gathered around a prone figure.

Handing the prisoners off to a grim-faced private, Steve hurried over to the group to see Clint bending over a writhing soldier with hands soaked in blood. His fingers clenched a scarlet-sodden clod of fabric, evidently to staunch the bleeding of a wound, and he was talking to the soldier hurriedly as he dressed his wound.

"Now listen, Ace, this ain't shit, this ain't nothing half as bad as I've seen before. You'll be back to your girl in no time with this million-dollar wound, I tell you what. You had a girl back at home, right? Marlene, wasn't it? She sure was a pretty dame, Ace, you'd better let her know that when you get back. You'll tell her for me? That's right, keep looking right up at me," he turned and looked over his shoulder with panic and rage in his eyes. "I need a medic here!"

The soldier groaned and turned his head away, a trail of blood streaming down his chin. Clint smeared it away and angled the man's chin upward, keeping his eyes fixed upward. "You stay with me, Ace, you stay right here. You did a damn good job out there, and they'll take real good care of you back at HQ. _Medic!_ "

With a shuddering breath, a tremor ran through the wounded soldier, and Steve watched as the life drained from his eyes. The tension over the band of soldiers snapped, and everyone released a sorrowful breath. Steve saw Clint sit back on his heels, pulling a bloody hand through his hair as he looked down over the fallen soldier with a bitter expression. The other soldiers stood by their fallen comrade, unsure whether to stay or go, all unwilling to look away from their friend lying frozen in death beside them.

Steve's heart wrenched at the sight of the man lying there, another life stolen in the endless green horror. Anyone could lose their way and wind up like Ace collapsed at Steve's feet. He could have found the dragon's tooth sooner, it had taken him minutes to dismantle the defenses. If he had only gotten there sooner...

"There was nothing you could do," he found himself gripping Clint's shoulder. The sailor stood with his head bowed over the fallen soldier as if in prayer.

"Neither could you. We did the best we could." Clint replied, his voice hollow. Reaching into the folds of Ace's uniform, he pulled out the man's dog tags and held them up to the light. "Catholic. He didn't even get last rites."

"He'll have a proper burial," Steve assured him. "Barton, what do you say we take him back to HQ ourselves? A day away from the front lines will do us good."

"No," Clint shook his head, gesturing to the other soldiers. "They don't get a choice, so we shouldn't either. We stay."

Pulling Clint up by his arm, Steve pulled him away from the body and walked a few steps back toward the forest. "We're taking him back, and that's an order. He needs a proper burial, and he won't get one here. I don't want to have to bury another man in this place."

Clint dropped his gaze and surveyed his boots. "You're right, Rogers. As always. I don't think he'd like to be buried here, either. It's just – how many more do we have to bury?"

A wall of trees and brush stood before Steve when he looked forward, any German defenses rendered invisible by the natural camouflage. The greenish hue of the sun glancing off of the leaves shimmered down, and a breath of wind stirred Steve's coat collar. He pulled his jacket closer around him, drawing his satchel with his shield in. "I don't know. I just don't know."

 _((Happy New Year!))_


	41. Lightning War

_"The men of the U.S. Army in Northwest Europe_

 _shook themselves and made this a defining moment_

 _in their own lives and in the history of the Army._

 _They didn't like retreating, they didn't like getting kicked around,_

 _and as individuals, squads and companies as well as SHAEF,_

 _they decided they were going to make the enemy pay."_

 _\- Stephen Ambrose_

* * *

 _Elsenborn, Belgium; December 17, 1944_

Retreat reeked with the stench of defeat.

Ever since Clint had landed in Europe, his battles had been those of constant motion. The energy and freedom afforded to he and Steve was addictive, and he had been swept up in the continual battles, never staying in one place too long, hopping from line to line. It was exhaustive and destructive and bloody yet tantalizingly exhilarating.

Retreating was a sudden reversal of this excitement, and crashing down from the high of endless adrenaline was torturous. Clint didn't have the heart to look the men next to him in the eye, and they kept their own gaze on their boots. Slushy, dark snow seeped through the holes in his shoes and froze his feet. Small patches of flame burned on the side of the road, officers' maps set alight, and fear resounded in the mind of every soldier as they charged to the west, away from the onslaught of German artillery and infantry.

Rows upon rows of dirty, disheveled soldiers crowded the clogged and muddy lanes, further contributing the massive traffic jam leading away from the lines. Tanks and deuce-and-a-half trucks stalled, mired in the thick snowy mud, and reinforcements tangled with the fleeing men. Above all panic ruled, the fear of one's life never as far away as the occasional snaps and booms of far-off German shell fire.

"This isn't right," Steve muttered beside him. His case with his shield was clasped on one fist and his gun in the other, eyes blazing as he looked out on the road.

Clint shook his head, taking a kick at an empty ration tin. "There's nothing we can do. You want to go take the buzz bombs on yourself?"

"I've had it with retreating. Do you have any ammunition?"

Turning to the side, Clint pointed to the massive supply dumps on either side of the road. "Take your pick, Cap. Besides, these men would give us anything they have. All the better of an excuse not to fight." There was a small spark in his chest, a small reminder of the flame of battle, and he felt the heat of the action begin to bloom again.

Steve's eyes shone with – what was it? Excitement? Rage? Righteous anger? In moments he had haggled a mortar set from a crew of boys, had a box of M1 ammo under his arm and a machine gun brace at his feet. "What are you waiting for, Barton? Come on!"

-o0o-

The village was more of a cluster of hovels around the junction of two Belgian roads, completely abandoned save a few stiff-necked locals and a band of American soldiers who were already laying defenses when Steve and Clint arrived. It seemed too small of a town to occupy such a critical junction, its main street flanking a wide, cobbled road facing shuttered street windows. A few of the citizens had the gall to re-hang their Nazi flags.

Clint had spent the last hour setting angles for the pre-sighted artillery attack. The few mortar sets he had been able to wrangle from retreating soldiers were centered on the entrance and exits to the main street. They would require two men to fire, so Clint had enlisted the help of one of the American rebels, a wiry kid named Laurey, to bomb the Krauts to hell. The men had Steve's fire in their eyes, the energy of doing wrong for something right.

They overturned pavement stones and wired in bombs, concealed machine-gun nests in windows, and turned the street into a battle zone in hours. And still the German artillery thundered nearer, like a shadow hanging over the band of soldiers.

"What do we do if they have tanks?" Laurey's companion Richardson murmured, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his uniform as he stared down at the road from the church citadel.

With a simpering smile, Laurey nudged his boot against one of the missiles in his compilation of shells leaning against the church's bells. "This here is a Panzerfaust. Stole it from one of the Jerries. Flip out your sight, take aim, and fire away, baby!"

Richardson shuddered slightly, dragging his gaze away from the road. "Let's pray they don't."

A steady thrum resounded over the occasional crack of a shell, and Clint's shoulders stiffened. Drawing up his rifle, he set the barrel between the ornamental mortar of the citadel and rested his cheek against the cold metal. He could have fired the gun blind – it had been his faithful companion since D-Plus-One, and he more willed the bullets to appear than fired them – but he remained focused on the small sight crossed at the center of the road.

His eyes darted to the side, and he saw Steve in his position farther back on the road with his head out the window. Shaking his head slightly, he pulled himself back into position. The message was clear: _wait._

But Clint was tired of waiting. He could feel the itch of battle beneath his palms, his fingers flexing against his rifle and drumming an impatient beat. The thrum had turned into a roar, the oncoming tide of Krauts mingling with the rush of blood in his ears, and he strained to make out the oncoming line.

A breath of anticipation rose among the soldiers as the first German boot rounded the bend to the tiny town. The Krauts marched in a line five men abreast, each with their rifles leaning against their shoulders and their other arm hanging loose at their sides. The infantrymen strode toward the fringe buildings, a few kicking aside remaining debris with an almost child-like vindictiveness. A few even wore smiles, those of an army on the offensive. They were dressed in proper cold-weather gear, followed by the might of their army, green in combat and full of confidence.

They stomped into the town, footsteps echoing over the cobblestones. Steve's rudimentary wiring of the mines had been timed to go off at his signal, and the first wave of soldiers proceeded toward the center of the town unharmed. Eyes skimmed over the citadel, searching the buildings for any signs of remaining defense. One man tugged at a hanging American flag with a grin on his face, eyebrows raised ironically at the man beside him. They exchanged a laugh, and Clint scowled, swinging his rifle around to their position.

 _Wait._ Steve's warning resounded in his head above the clatter of boots. A flash of motion caught Clint's eye and he turned to see a young girl only waist-high dart out to the soldiers. One stopped and knelt to speak to her, and she pointed up at the citadel.

Up at Clint.

His barrel framed the girl's curly ringlets, his finger stretching for the trigger, _instinct._ He had just grazed the metal with his finger when Richardson tore his grip away, spinning him back toward the inside of the roof. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

"She's giving us away!"

A barking command in German followed, and the mortar before Clint's face exploded in a powder of white from Kraut fire. Blinded, Clint turned away and swore profusely, but beside him Richardson and Laurey opened fire on the growing mass of soldiers below. All hell broke loose as the mines tore free from their positions under the cobblestones, scattering soldiers away in massive craters. Smoke choked the air, screams and steam twisting toward the sky. The Germans kept marching.

When his vision cleared, Clint began firing as well, a solid mass of artillery raining down on the Germans so thick he could have walked on it. Bullets scattered like hail, no alley or shop window providing protection from the merciless onslaught. A pounding on his shoulder alerted him that Richardson was trying to get his attention in the din, and he followed the soldier's pointing finger to the figures of the most recent arrivals. Outfitted in long black jackets indicative of high-ranking SS men, Clint knew they had to be the infantrymen's' officers. Their expressions were perfectly calm as they approached the carnage from the bend in the road, and a knot of worry settled in Clint's stomach. The defenders could sense it too, and the firing stopped as the officers came forward, the click of boots shifting to something much more sinister.

"Oh, shit..." Laurey muttered, swinging around to snatch his heavier artillery. Clint had fought in the hedgerows long enough to know what that sound was.

The pop of small-arms fire sounded from below and he looked down to see Steve sprinting across the street into the citadel. The Krauts were settling into defensive positions, taking shelter under overturned carts and behind buildings. The river of soldiers was slowing to a trickle, but Clint knew the Americans were outmanned and outgunned.

Bursting through the door, Steve crouched beside the soldiers. "All our mines are exploded or busted. This is all we have left."

Defiance sparked in Clint's gut, and he turned back to the street. No wonder the officers were so relaxed approaching the town – they had a Tiger on their side! "What can we do, Cap?"

Steve's brows furrowed. Clint watched as he surveyed the street below him. It was piled high with the bodies of the enemy, slicking the cobblestones with a vivid scarlet. "We have to beat that Tiger or there's no way we get out of this alive. I want you all to make chaos for the Germans. Take them out as best you can. Make them scared, make them think we have greater numbers. Can you do that?"

"Don't have to tell me twice!" Laurey growled, hoisting his rifle against his shoulder. Clint followed his lead and swung his rifle through the slats of the citadel's balcony. The report of rifles thundered against the shattered silence, and his vision narrowed to exposed helmets and limbs and anything he could spot. He burst lightbulbs and store windows, filling the air with the clamor of destruction and death, and the Germans hunkered down as their tank skittered around the corner, limbs digging deep in the mud and stone as it propelled itself forward.

Try as he might, Clint could never contain the shiver of fear that passed over him as the Tiger approached. He turned back to see Steve's eyes light up with inspiration, and Clint pushed away from the citadel's railing to hear his plan.

"The Tiger doesn't have an underwater exhaust system!" he cried, his face splitting into a beaming grin.

"What?"

"Is there a river around here? Anywhere?"

Digging through his pocket, Clint pulled out his silk map and traced the route of the road to the town with his finger. "About a mile away. Why?"

"You ever went fishing before, seaman?"

"Sure, why?"

"Ever wanted to know what it feels like to be bait?"

-o0o-

"Hey, you big Kraut oafs! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you! Over here, you louse-riddled, good for nothin'–"

The Germans must have been too shocked to fire as Clint strode into the middle of the road bold as brass, waving his M1 above his head and hollering at the top of his lungs. The Tiger's turret had been nosing around through a broken shop window, but it slowly turned to face Clint. The barrel seemed to swell in Clint's vision and he gulped, but put on a show of bravado as he crossed his arms.

"You want a piece of this action? That's what I thought! Come and get it!"

The Tiger shuffled forward as if it were uncertain to go after Clint or keep scoping out its prey, but the bait was too good. Lunging forward, the tank's treads skimmed over the bodies of the dead Krauts, its prong-like legs tearing across stone and flesh. A shell burst above Clint's head, forcing him to the ground. His feet scrabbled against the slick ground as he pushed himself upright and ran down the widest side street, the Tiger's limbs wheeling and heaving as it pursued him.

It didn't take long to reach the edge of town, where the closely spaced buildings spread out into overgrown farms. Cows with swollen udders bellowed from the fields, their farmers having long since abandoned them, but the whirring machinery of the Tiger's legs ground above their pitiful cries. The tank was gaining on Clint. Arms and legs pumping, Clint sprinted for all he was worth, zigzagging across the road in a desperate attempt to keep the Tiger from pinning its .88 on him. Bullets snapped at his heels and he leaped forward with a new burst of speed, diving from the main road and into the trees surrounding the village.

The Tiger must have been very determined to chase Clint down, because it swiveled and crashed down onto its treads to pursue him into the woods. The engine whined and roared behind him, razing any shrubs or small trees in its way. An artillery blast shredded a nearby tree down to its stump, and Clint raised his arms against the wooden and metal shrapnel bursting around him as he ran. His breath grew heavy and his strides were slowing as his stamina wore down, but he couldn't stop now, not with the river so close...

The ground grew marshy beneath his feet, his boots sticking to the mud and silt slipping beneath his heels. When it seemed like the tank was directly on top of him, Clint covered his head and dove to the side. The Tiger was going too fast to change its course. Tthe powerful engine bellowed as it passed Clint with the force of a steam train and the speed of a jet plane. Too slowly it extracted its insect-like legs and plunged them into the earth, but the mud simply slid past the feelers and propelled the Tiger into the water.

A gush of bubbles leaked from the machine to the surface of the tank, ripples spreading out from the dark shadow of the machine sinking beneath the scummy, frost-encrusted water. A film of dirt and vegetation obscured the tank from view, but Clint knew it would be moments before the Kraut soldiers abandoned their machine. If Steve's mechanical expertise was correct, water from the exhaust pipes would be filling the Tiger, and its engine would be overheating from a dozen different mechanical failures. Clint stood on the bank of the river, looking down on the Kraut tank with a savage pleasure simmering in his heart.

The first German head broke the surface, helmet-less and wide-eyed as he looked up at Clint. The latter shouldered his rifle in a second, aiming it at the boy's forehead, and the Kraut raised his arms above the air. Swimming in the frigid water was no easy feat, especially in waterlogged clothes, and the soldier's face was drawn with strain as he paddled.

"Kamerad!" he cried, and Clint gestured with his head to the bottom of the bank. Three other soldiers emerged, all similarly compliant as they floundered their way to the bank. By the time they had all pulled themselves panting onto the mud, Clint's small band of American rebels had reached him with their remaining weapons in tow.

A sharp clanging emanated from the sinking tank, and Clint's rifle snapped up in his hands as the hatch revealed the figure of one final deserter, arms raised in surrender and voice – in perfect English - trembling with relief.

"For God's sake, Barton, don't shoot!"

 _((You guessed it - we've hit the Battle of the Bulge! Thanks as always for reading!))_


	42. Diametrically Opposed

_"Bravery is the capacity to perform properly_

 _even when scared half to death."_

 _Gen. Omar Bradley_

* * *

 _Elsenborn, Belgium; December 17, 1944_

The SS man's jacket snapped in the chilling breeze. His teeth were chattering between lips spread wide in a blissful smile, shoulders sagging as if he were releasing a pent-up breath. His clothes were in tatters, body smeared with mud and traces of red, but behind the mask of exhaustion and terror stood Tony Stark.

Steve was almost too shocked to see Clint's body tense, arms raising as they focused his rifle with deadly precision over Tony's heart. Brilliant grin falling limp, Tony raised his hands higher in the air, shaking slightly beneath his gloves.

"What are you doing in a Kraut uniform, you damn traitor?" Clint seethed. He was shaking too, but not from fear or cold. His body stood taut with rage, eyes narrowed with a chilling glare as cold as the crackling ice beneath Steve's boots. A wild, feral energy snapped around him, and Steve stepped forward, extending a steadying hand in the sailor's direction.

"Funny story, actually, I landed in the middle of nowhere without another soldier in sight, so I had to improvise my way out of getting bayoneted!" A tense laugh escaped Tony's lips. Steve fought to remember where Tony had been blown off to in the jump into Normandy. That day seemed like eons ago, crowded out of his memory by endless days of fighting. "I borrowed this from a corpse and no one gave me any trouble behind enemy lines."

The barrel of Clint's rifle swung from Tony's chest to that of one of the German escapees, who forced his hands higher. "Yeah? And you buddied up with these little angels on the way, huh?"

Tony's eyes widened and he reached out as if to stop Clint from atop his tank. "No, don't! That's Luck, he's one of my friends –"

"Your _friend_?" Clint hissed, his finger flexing on the trigger of his gun. Alarm sparked through Steve and he snatched for Clint's gun, clenching the freezing metal of the barrel. Steel crunched beneath his grip, and when he released his hand the cylinder of the barrel had crumpled inward. Clint glowered at Steve for a moment, his fury still red and raw, but he stepped back as Steve gestured for Tony to rejoin the men on the bank.

Swimming in the frigid water with the enormous SS cloak surely wasn't an easy feat, but Tony clambered onto the ground dripping wet but alive. Steve grasped his hand and pulled him up beside the rest of the men. The eyes of the German soldiers flickered from Steve to Clint to Tony, confused and terrified in the face of a foreign tongue.

Steve nodded back to the soldiers, speaking over the conspicuous click of Clint loading his pistol. "You got in with a tank crew?"

"I figured it was safer than rouging it on foot. Luck came with me. We've been together since Falaise." Recognizing his name, a fair-haired and hard-faced soldier looked up and made eye contact with Tony. The latter smiled back at him, his apparent confidence betrayed by his rigid shoulders and darting glances around.

"Look, Cap, what's going on here? You know this guy?" Richardson called from his rear position.

"He's a friend from the States. He's no Nazi." Steve called back. Clint disguised his snort of disbelief as a cough.

"Are you imprisoning us now?" Tony's eyes shone, and he looked almost hopeful at the prospect of his capture. "Take us back to your HQ. They'll cooperate, I promise."

"We don't have an HQ," Steve admitted. "I think we're behind enemy lines right now. Rich, retreat to the rear. Let's try to get back to friendly territory."

Tony blinked slowly, as if he couldn't believe what Steve was saying. "You mean... You're on your own?"

"Not for long if you get yourself moving." Fishing a pistol from his pocket, Clint jabbed the barrel into Tony's back. "Step on it."

-o0o-

The trek through the forest was almost beautiful. Steve allowed himself to glance away from his path for a moment, seconds of respite from the constant vigilance demanded when wandering through enemy territory. Ice fractals encrusted rows and rows of deep green boughs, scattering the fading sunlight across the soft, white canvas of recent snowfall. Every tree seemed dressed for Christmas, the twinkling ice dripping down the short needles in perfect diamonds. The silence save the sound of birdsong gave the forest a tone of the ethereal, as if Steve and his companions had stepped into some fantasy picture book. In a world like this, one could almost forget the war.

Clint and Tony stood behind him, stooped at the waist to avoid knocking any snow off of the branches and giving away their position. They were far more focused on attacking each other with snippy comments than any possible enemy encampments on the left flank, which Clint was supposed to be watching.

"Comfy in that suit of yours?" Clint muttered, and Tony scowled. They were both buried knee-deep in snow, forcing them to flail their limbs about to make any progress in the dense snowbanks. Clint's face spelled murder, but Tony merely looked exasperated.

"Seeing as I am soaked with water and freezing cold, I'd say no." Steve felt bad for him, smothered in his dripping garments that were gathering frost. The winter was cold enough with reasonably dry gear, and Tony had just swum through a frozen river. How he could still speak was a miracle. Then again, Tony would rather leap from the Empire State Building than be bested in a battle of words.

"You know what they do with deserters back at CP? It ain't pretty."

"Please, spare me your childish attempts at intimidation. I understand you're angry, but this is ridiculous. Steve, don't you agree?"

Sighing to himself, Steve kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. It was hard to make out the gleam of binoculars amid the glittering wonderland of snow and frost, but he feigned his best attempt. "Don't drag me into this, Tony."

"See? He agrees with me! Why do you hate me so much?" Tony threw his hands in the air, sending a rush of powdered snow down on the shoulders of the men. Everyone froze, and Steve lowered himself into the bank of snow until it was chest-level. The telltale sound of rifles cocking or artillery grinding seemed to pound in Steve's ears, but he dispelled these fears and hunted for the sounds of German defenses in the twinkling silence. None came.

"Oh, let me think. You send my friends to a watery grave, you collaborate with the Ruskies _and_ the Germans with weapons that are sending American boys to their graves, and you're an insufferable asshat. Need I go on?"

"Language," Steve called back, but his interjection was drowned out by Tony's exasperated reply.

"When will you get your thick skull around the fact that I didn't order the hit on the _Reuben James_? And I've cut ties with both of those countries now! I'm a changed man!"

Clint snorted with disbelief. "The day Tony Stark becomes a changed man is the day the Germans win this damned war. I don't believe it for a second."

"Fellas, I hate to break this up, but I think we have a more important matter at hand." Steve looked back over his shoulder to see the two with crossed arms, chins lifted and refusing to look at each other. Just the attitude he wanted from the men who would be watching his back. To his right, Richardson and Laurey snickered behind their gloves.

-o0o-

It was cruel and unusual torture on Steve's part to put Clint and Tony in the same foxhole. As much as Clint respected Rogers as a solid strategist and a good man, this was overstepping his boundaries. The past four hours had been dedicated to entrenching tools and axes and bloody, split fingers while Tony sat on the side in a grand impression of work.

"The Tigers are just marvelous, aren't they? The addition of the legs is an ingenious modification, I can't believe I didn't think of it myself!"

"Yes, I'm positively shocked," Clint raised the pitch of his voice in an impression of Tony's snobbish attitude.

Whether he was oblivious or simply ignoring him, most likely the latter, Tony gestured vaguely with his entrenching tool toward the sky. "And have you seen the wings Rogers is working on?"

"The wings? What about them?" Clint brought the blade of his ax down in the split of the tree, scattering shards of wood around his feet. His arms throbbed with the steady burn of work and purpose, and his throat tightened with anger. He attacked the tree again with a vigorous furor, imagining the splintering wood was Tony's neck.

"I can tell he's trying to improve a model of mine the Germans used on him. He does have a sharp thought or two every once and a while, I'll admit it. Don't know where he put them, though, since all he carries around is that damn satchel. Captain America..."

With a deep groan of age-old agony, the tree bowed at its split and began to tumble to the side. It wasn't a particularly large one, so Clint braced its fall with his shoulders and rested it gently on the ground. The crash of falling trees would surely attract an artillery barrage from the Krauts. Starting on the loose branches, Clint's arm rose and fell with robotic precision.

Tony dragged his toe through the icy veneer of snow and pine needles glazing the frozen ground, the image of nonchalance. His hands were tucked under his arms and his cheeks were flushed flaming red with cold, but otherwise he could have been his normal self. Except for his eyes, Clint supposed. They had the look of fleeing prey in them, a skittishness and crystallized fear hidden not quite out of sight. They were the eyes of a hunted man.

"Why don't you take a stab at the hole, will you?" Clint growled, and Tony simply shrugged.

"There's nothing left to do except that last log of yours. It's got to be at least four feet deep, wouldn't you reckon? Anyways, back to what I was saying."

"Damn what you were saying! I can't build this whole foxhole by myself!" _Damn that Rogers, damn this winter, damn it all!_ Clint wheeled on Tony, whose eyes fell to the ax in his hand with a flicker of fear darting across his features.

"Tell you what, Barton – I've got a bottle of whiskey stored in the hole. Why don't we break it open and relax for a minute?"

Clint's grip tightened on the ax, tugging on the split skin of his hand. His own blood felt frigid against his palm. Warmth was a distant memory. Every part of his body was numb and bitten by the fangs of burrowing frost. Avoiding trench foot was quite the chore since Clint's boots were constantly waterlogged. He was more than miserable, and Tony was only irritating him more.

"You're going to drink on the front lines? Are you –"

An explosion drew his attention elsewhere. The ground trembled beneath his feet like a rolling wave, and Clint dove headfirst into the foxhole as a whistling, screaming whir split through the calm of the air. The wooden logs only covered half of the hole, so Clint and Tony had to huddle shoulder-to-shoulder to hide under its menial protection. As he brought his hands around his neck and ducked down into a ball, Clint's fingers brushed a glass half-hidden beneath the pine needles. Tony hadn't been lying about that whiskey after all.

During the many shellings he had endured in the war, Clint found it best to distract himself with other thoughts. While the very air seemed to scream and bleed and the earth itself seemed more like water than solid ground, he forced himself to think about the _Reuben James._ Only the good things, of course, like his excursions through the towns with Farley and Owen and Sabin. All dead now – no, don't think that. Dinner with the British soldiers in London, playing cards on the _North Carolina_ , the eyes of the Japanese pilot boring through him with his death-mask of a face...

"Enough!" Clint shouted into the mud, his own voice drowned out in the deafening explosions, shell after shell burrowing into the earth, each with its own radius of destruction and disaster. Clint was blinded in the mud, deafened from the sounds, numbed to the sensation of the whole horrid war.

A rabid anger filled him, and his fingers itched for anything to fire back with. The thrill of the violence called to him, and he yearned for the challenge with every fiber of being. He was a soldier, and he would be damned if he didn't do his job.

 _((Hey everyone! I wanted to post on my birthday yesterday but didn't get around to it, so here's a regular Friday update! Thanks for reading!))_


	43. Crucible

_"I just wanted to throw my weapon away and tell them I quit._

 _No more, I just can't take no more."_

 _\- Dwayne Burns, 82nd Airborne_

* * *

 _Mande-St.-Etienne; January 3, 1945_

Body low and hands scrabbling for purchase in the ice-capped snow, Tony burrowed until his helmet was no longer visible to the German attackers. He lay prone with the soft drifts surrounding him, a muddy green spot against the impeccable white, shells whining and droning above. A soft dusting of powder, thrown into the air from explosives finding purchase, settled on his shoulders.

A foreign impulse took over him, that of the slightest tinge of bravery, and he raised his chin from the snow to glance about the field. In the sudden silence it appeared undefended, rolling snow marred only by the tracks of American soldiers.

The whisper of the wind was rent by a screeching scream, the sort that sent an uncontrollable shiver up and down Tony's spine. The sharp whine whooped above Tony's head and ended with a concussive crash, shaking the ground. Tony would recognize that sound anywhere – he had carefully perfected it himself. His own multiple rockets, _Nebelwerfer_ , firing down on him!

"That's not fair!" He shouted over the screams, but his voice was drowned out in the blasts. Hands digging deeper into the snow, Tony forced himself lower. His body trembled with cold and terror as shells dug into the ground to his left, right, behind him, a fence of shrapnel and gunpowder. To keep his mind from the immediate threat, Tony traced the angles of the missiles, following their trail back to their launching points. The Germans were assembled ahead of them, lying in wait to trap the oncoming American forces.

Between the shellings Tony heard a bellowing voice, nearly as loud if not louder than the blasts. "Move!" He tried to raise his head while still maintaining his cover and saw Captain Rogers himself striding down the length of the field, a rifle in one hand with his opposite fist clenched in the air. The muscles of his neck stood out taut as he hollered and shouted at the men lying at his feet, face red with a boiling rage.

"Move, you stupid bastards! There's no cover here! Move! Move!" The sight of Rogers fuming and raving and _swearing_ frightened Tony more than the shells. He had never seen anyone so livid before, his anger a new beast as Rogers seized men by their collars and coats and hoisted them upward, hurling them forward. Even the shells seemed intimidated, their fury hampered by that of Rogers.

"Get up! Get _up!_ " His clenched fist pounded up in down in some military signal lost on Tony. He didn't need to be told twice. Leaping to his feet and collecting his rifle, rendered useless by the cold but his only defense, Tony staggered forward in the snow. His boots swished through the snow, the barrel of his rifle dragging across the fresh powder. Invigorated by adrenaline and Rogers' barking commands, he reached the edge of the field and rolled down into the drainage ditch, swaddling himself in a fresh layer of caked snow.

"Fix bayonets!" Rogers hollered, his voice surrounding Tony as he reached the ditch with the rest of the group. Tony had to press a gloved hand to his mouth to muffle his laughter. What was this, the Great War? He used his bayonet for opening gasoline tins, not stabbing people. Feeling around the many pockets of his uniform, Tony's half-frozen fingers clenched around his bayonet. He locked it into the stud of his barrel.

There was a village above the hill, rising like a medieval ruin swathed in snow and from the cover of the trees. The German position stood before it, a semicircle of artillery launchers (Tony's make, of course) shrouded by loosely hung camouflage. When he mounted the hill a shout of excitement sounded to his left, and Tony watched as Barton charged through sporadic small-arms fire and swung himself over the rudimentary defenses. The rest of the men followed suit, Steve among them with his shield drawn. A shower of sparks leaped from the shield, and Tony guarded his eyes as Steve charged forward. A low reverb sounded as Steve swung his arm around into the broad forehead of a surrendering German, knocking him back onto his heels.

Tony followed them with his rifle raised in mock excitement. By the time he floundered behind the short walls most of the fighting was finished. Breathless but still alive, eyes darting back to the field they had recently abandoned, the soldiers clapped each other on the back and looked over the spoils of their capture. A few spare _Nebelwerfer_ shells were piled against the wall, a pitiful supply. The Americans were already tearing through the German rations, stuffing their pockets, stealing their socks and cigarettes.

In the fading light Rogers had shifted back to human. His uncanny rage was gone, his shield stowed in his case as quickly as he had drawn it. Tony's own briefcase was strapped to his back beneath an outer blanket hanging down from his neck like a poncho, guarding against the cold and suspicion. Surveying his success with a blank expression, Steve brought the men together in a circle.

"Next is the town, boys. Fancy sleeping in a bedroom tonight?"

-o0o-

The promised bedroom was more of a cellar, with water dripping down the walls and the smell of must hanging low in the air. To Tony, it might as well have been a five-star hotel. The cellar was warm, if only slightly, and it had a small cookstove in the corner around which fourteen men were gathered, trying to bring life back into their hands.

A few broke open their German rations, which contained a bit of black bread and cheap sausage, another miracle. Tony had accumulated a small collection of flasks and some of the soldiers tried to wheedle one off of him when Steve's back was turned. The atmosphere was as cheery as wartime could get, especially through the rosy tint of stolen German schnapps, but Tony couldn't enjoy it. He couldn't shake the memories of Falaise, the constant fear of attack, always looking over your shoulder.

Reaching back, he brushed his thumb against his case. It was an unconscious motion by now, but the feel of the cracked leather corners brought him a small measure of comfort.

From across the room, Clint leaned over and whispered something in Steve's ear. The two disengaged themselves from the circle of soldiers and headed for the steps out of the cellar, eyes darting back and forth as if they had something to hide. Tony watched them go from the corner of the room – a socialite turned pariah, another thing to thank the war for. His curiosity overtook him, and he took to the stairs after a short amount of time.

The cellar door was cracked open an inch, providing Tony a narrow strip of vision. Steve and Clint stood in the dark, silhouetted by the light of the moon. A single glowing ember sparked to life and a wispy trail of cigarette smoke rose into the gloom. Agitated voices hissed in whispers, barely audible from Tony's vantage point.

"Send him back. He hadn't been sober since the day after we picked him up. Have you seen him fight? Always hanging back, waiting until all of the real work is done. He's more of a danger to us than the Krauts!"

"We can't turn him back now. He has nowhere else to go. We're his best option right now. Would you leave a fellow soldier behind?"

"He's cracking up. He's no soldier." A growling voice, then the grinding of a shoe against the cobblestones. The flickering cigarette light was extinguished. "Cap, he's dangerous!"

"Is your concern coming from that of a tactician? Or is it something else?"

A derisive scoff followed. "You think this is a personal problem? My feelings on Stark are obvious, but this is something more. Are you –" A pause, collecting himself – "Fine. But when he trips up and gets us killed, don't say I didn't warn you."

Tony scrambled down the steps as Clint barged through the door, his expression stormy. Raising his hand in greeting, Tony tried for an easy smile on his face. The seaman ignored him, pushing past to rejoin the soldiers clustered around the cookstove.

When a second set of footsteps rang down the cellar stairs, Tony started for the door, nearly running headfirst into Steve. "Sorry, sir, I'll be back in a minute," he nodded and ran up the last few steps, briefcase in tow. Steve gave him a strange look but allowed him to go onward, smoothing down the front of his uniform.

Tony's fingers folded the crisp paper of Steve's newest orders before placing it in his pocket. Top right pocket every time – routine was a surefire way to get swindled. He took off down the street at a quick jog, scanning the broken windows for a suitable hiding place. An old wedding dress store, still furnished with mannequins in various stages of soldierly theft, caught his eye. Tony swung open his briefcase and rested his fingers on the top of the sheaths of paper. The tinkling of metal followed, and the hatch beneath the innocuous designs gave way to reveal his disassembled suit. Curling his fingers into a fist, Tony summoned the hand and thruster, which locked onto his wrist and unfolded down the length of his hand, sheathing his palm and fingers in steel.

Glass split beneath the force of his punch and Tony leaped through the hole in the window, dragging his case behind him. He took shelter behind a row of waxy prewar silk and kicked off his shoes, drawing both fists up to his chest to call the full suit up. A magnificent lights show erupted from the briefcase as low-powered thrusters angled the various sections of the suit up around him, some locking onto his calves, others onto his arms and chest, surrounding his feet and nestling into place. Reaching down, Tony applied his visor and his display bloomed to life.

"Marvelous to see you again, sir," Jarvis' voice sounded from the suit's speakers like a familiar embrace.

"And you, Jarvis. Scan Rogers' orders, will you? I want to see where we're going tomorrow."

"Already on it, sir. The village of Flamierge is our next objective. Would you like me to plot a path for you?"

Tony waved away the map and pulled up Jarvis' scan of Rogers' documents. "It says here we're headed from the field to the ridge in daylight? I'm no military genius, but that sounds like suicide. Heat signatures?"

"We're too far away now to be exactly accurate, but I have three congregations. Possibly tanks."

"Let's light them up."

Kicking off against the street, Tony rocketed into the low-hanging clouds, his thrusters casting a shower of sparks like the tail of a comet after his path. The ground was blackout dark, and the light of the moon shuffled in and out of his vision as banks of fog spread over the sky. Were it not for Jarvis' instruction Tony would have been flying blind. Wind rushed beside him, the shadows of stars twinkling above, his thrusters roaring at his heels as he pushed himself faster.

"They think I'm worthless," Tony muttered to himself. "I'll show them. Faster, Jarvis."

"Sir, protocol states that I must inform you when your blood alcohol is above –"

"Damn the protocol! Give me more power." Tony's arms were pinned to his sides as he lunged forward, angling down in a gentle trajectory toward the ground. Slowly his thrusters sputtered out as he eased to a stop, feet skidding across the icy ground. A faint hissing sounded from his heels and he looked down to see the ice under his feet melting from the heat of the thrusters.

"Night vision," Tony whispered, and his vision was overlaid with an unearthly greenish tint. He was on the edge of a steep ridge looking down on an unblemished field of sparkling snow. A frontal attack would be a massacre. He could scarcely make out but could fully sense the figures of the lumbering tanks beside him. Spots of red and purple faded into view – the tank crews' body heat.

The shoulder panel of Tony's suit rose to reveal six finger-sized heat-seeking missiles, another one of his inventions the Russians hadn't gone for. _They'll be cursing their bad judgment when they see the looks of these,_ Tony thought to himself with a grin. Tracing the path of the missiles with his index finger, Tony signaled for them to fire.

With a whisper the missiles launched, arcing through the trees with the grace of a songbird. The first burrowed through the armor of the tank and tore it to shreds, a fireball taller than a house billowing into the air, melting the snow off of the trees. The men in the second tank didn't even have time to react before they met a similar fate, scorched in the broiling heat as their machine was scattered into shreds. Its barrel snapping up like the head of an alarmed animal, the third tank searched for the men laying the explosives for a brief second before it collapsed in on itself, gases boiling and rupturing the structure until only the tank's treads remained.

Jarvis had dampened the sound to protect Tony's hearing, but if the rolling vibrations from the missiles were any indication of success Tony was sure his job here was done. As the lapping flames dimmed down beneath the bitter wind and the cold, the figures of German infantrymen appeared. Their faces, thrown into harsh relief from the flames, were painted with shock and horror.

Tony leaped into action, his thrusters burning against his feet as he flew to their position. His elbow stabbed upward, cutting the rifleman across the jaw and sending him stumbling backward. Lashing out with his right foot, Tony sent the smoking end of his boot into the man's stomach, searing into his outerwear and flesh. A hair-raising scream followed. Turning his attention to the second man, Tony raised his hand and fired with a pulse from his thruster. Energy arced like a bolt of lightning through the man's body, and he flipped over facefirst in the snow.

Panting with adrenaline and excitement, Tony raised his fists in preparation for the next battle. This town was his.

 _((Sorry for the unanticipated hiatus! Updates should be on a normal schedule again. Thank you so much for all of your input and support!))_


	44. Head to Head

_"I have often read that an army on the move_

 _is a happier army than one which sits,_

 _and now I can believe it..._

 _Tonight, just after dusk, I stood from a long distance away_

 _and watched the plumes of smoke,_

 _the flashes of flames, and listened to the long, low_

 _rumble that marked the death of one of the_

 _oldest cities in Europe."_

 _\- Major Max Lale_

* * *

 _Stuttgart, Germany; February 28, 1945_

"This is all your fault!" Clint shouted over the bullets screaming over his head, glaring at Tony as they scrambled through the snow outside of Stuttgart. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him the truth – that his dancing skills were abysmal, his German even more so, and I mistook his date for something that came from a stable." Tony held a hand to his head to keep his helmet on as he sprinted below the low-hanging branches.

"Perfectly appropriate. What could go wrong?" Steve muttered. His shield hung at his side as the three sprinted through the woods, the flickering glow of the beam of a headlight glancing off the burnished metal.

"Incoming!" Tony yelled, and Clint threw himself to the ground as one of the pursing motorcycles roared over his head and crashed to the ground before him, its shock absorbers shrieking as the chassis ground into the icy rocks below. Its rider wrenched the handlebars to the side and planted his foot into the ground, wheeling on the three Americans standing before him.

Clint's fingers fumbled for his rifle, but he had only just reached the weapon when Steve's shield spun into the man's jaw. A reverberating concussion warbled through the air as the German soldier fell backward, arms flailing as he grappled for consciousness. Clint turned to Steve, who reached down and scooped his weapon from the snow.

"You know shields are for defense, right?"

Smiling with a touch of embarrassment, Steve placed his shield in its ready position on his forearm and turned back to where the attacker had come. "Tony, can you ride this thing?"

Tony's eyes nearly popped from his head. "Can I ride this thing? Are you kidding? I've been driving motorcycles since I was born!"

"I wouldn't call it driving," Clint raised his eyebrows, feeling a savage burn of pleasure in his chest when Tony glowered at him. "You might to hold off on your plan for a minute, Captain. We've got visitors."

The growl of engines swelled into a roar as twin beams of light burst into view from Clint's flanks. He pulled his rifle to his shoulder as the motorcycles revved their engines and tore through the woods to reach his position. Raising the barrel of his weapon, he stared down its length and lined up his sights with the helmet of the oncoming rider, fixing its end until the gun stared directly into the man's goggles.

 _Steady... Steady..._ He breathed out, relaxed his shoulders, and squeezed his finger around the trigger. A sharp report followed and the man's arms flew up into the air, his limbs sprawling as he veered off his course and crashed into a nearby tree, sending a plume of fire billowing into the air. Behind him, Clint could make out the snap of bullets as Steve and Tony aimed for the second driver. Ducking down, Clint peered up from below the line of fire to see the German taking evasive action through the trees, weaving through the trunks.

Clint blinked and suddenly a pulse of fire snapped free from the engine of the motorcycle, sending lapping tongues of flame high into the air as the motorcycle imploded. Its rider screamed as he was overcome by the flames, pitching motionless into the snow as his mount careened to the ground. As Clint watched Tony tugged down on one of his gloves, looking back with wide and surprised eyes.

"Du bist umgeben!" A roaring command barked from the trees, and Clint formed a circle with Steve's and Tony's backs to his. They squared their weapons against the voices that surrounded them, and Clint loaded his rifle as the first forms of the German infantrymen emerged from the woods.

"What are they saying?" he hissed, and Tony's brows furrowed with concentration as he listened to the barking orders.

"They're saying we're surrounded. That we have nowhere to run. We'll never make it to the American border. Amongst other... Less pleasant things."

"Bastards," Clint fitted his rifle against his shoulder, but Steve pushed the barrel to the ground.

"Not yet. I think I have a plan." His eyes narrowed, scanning the soldiers as they formed a ring around the clearing, cocking their weapons ostentatiously and looming ever nearer.

"Whatever it is, think faster!" Tony whispered.

"Hey! Halt die klappe!" The leading figure emerged from the masses, a well-built Wehrmacht man with a strong Roman nose to crown his scowling expression. Clint did a double-take as the man's fingers brushed a weapon hanging from his waist – a ceremonial sword with its hilt carved in the shape of a lion spitting fire.

"He's going to turn us into kebabs!"

"Verstummen!"

"Clint, cover Tony. Let him get to that motorcycle. I'll hold off the rest of these clowns," Steve raised his shield and the Wehrmacht officer shouted in surprise, lowering his arm as a cue to let the hail of bullets fly. Clint dropped down and opened up into the mass of them, loading as quickly as he could as his rifle spit lead into the block of bodies. Raising his arms above his head, Tony sprinted under the gunfire and barreled through the nearest group of soldiers, leaping onto the motorcycle in one deft motion.

A blast of light illuminated the clearing as Tony threw the lights on, and Clint felt a pulse of energy ripple through the ground. The nearest group of Germans went flying as the motorcycle's engine revved, plowing through the soldiers like dominoes. Clint was picking off any of the ones who got close to Steve, but the latter was doing well enough on his own, using his shield as a weapon of mass destruction. Bullets carved bloody trails through the air and gunfire scattered like rain.

Clint was just about to reload when he was toppled by a German soldier tackling him to the ground. Spitting out a mouthful of dirt and snow, Clint turned and threw his arms up to block a hammer-blow to his face. His forearms smarted from the impact and he forced his weight upward, trying to dislodge the man on top of him, but the German didn't budge. A fist like an iron weight drilled into Clint's chin, casting stars across his vision.

The world went loopy for a moment, but Clint shook his head and dragged his wrist out of the German's grip. He stabbed his fingers into the man's eye, throwing him off when he reeled back in pain, and his fingers scrabbled for his cast-off rifle. Clint swung the weapon around like a baseball bat and sent the stock crashing into the German's temple, knocking him out cold where he lay.

Spinning on his heel, Clint turned to the nearest soldier, a terrified-looking boy who shied away when he made eye contact.

"That's right, punk! You don't want to mess with me!" Clint hollered, pounding a fist against his chest. His false bravado worked, and the kid scrambled away as quickly as his skinny legs could carry him.

He felt a polite tap on his shoulder and turned, expecting to see Steve or Tony, but stared up to meet the bead eyes of the Wehrmacht commander. Yellowed teeth beamed down at him, and Clint managed a confident grin before the man's knee jerked into his stomach, folding him at the middle.

Clint fell to the ground heaving for breath, fingers tightening around his M1. The commander kicked his rifle away and raised his fists, one eyebrow cocked in the universal symbol of a challenge. Panting for breath, Clint held up a finger and picked himself up painfully from the earth, pulling his arms up in defense as the German leaped into the leading blow.

His fist drilled into Clint's ear and he stumbled backward, arms flailing as he fought to keep his balance. A snort of laughter followed as Clint righted himself, a trail of blood snaking from his nose. His blood boiled with rage to see the German laughing at him, besting him in a casual fistfight in the woods. Clint had fought like this more times than he could count.

He reached down and clapped his hands against his knees, making a show of his exhaustion. The German took the bait, a saccharine smile spreading across his face as he approached for the kill. When he was close enough Clint sprang forward and tackled the man from the middle, folding his legs back and slamming his body into the earth. Breath rushed from the commander's lips in a gust of surprise, and Clint was on him before he had a chance to recover. Straddling the man's chest, he tore into him without mercy, his fists slicking with blood and knuckles splitting as he pounded into the German's face again and again.

He was torn away from the officer, whose face was beginning to resemble a cut of meat, by Steve's iron grip pulling him to the side. His expression was dark and disappointed as Clint got to his feet, shaking out his arms and bouncing on the balls of his feet, adrenaline coursing through him.

"Let me back at 'im, Steve, I was teaching him a lesson."

"You've done enough."

Rolling slowly onto his side, the officer squinted up at Clint through swollen eyelids and laughed, his chest rising and falling jerkily with every painful breath. "You are dead men," he gasped in stilted English through broken teeth. Clint started after him, but Steve dragged him back again.

The whine of an engine signaled Tony's arrival on the German motorcycle. He glanced over his shoulder at the fallen soldiers, suspicion etched across his face. "I make no more hostiles, Rogers. It's just..."

"If you have something to say, Stark, say it." Steve bent over the officer, whose laughter had faded to a blissful unconsciousness.

"A dozen or so men and two bike groups to take down Captain America? Seems kind of skimpy to me, as fighting forces go."

"They didn't know it was Steve here – we could have been any Americans," Clint argued, toeing his boot in the dirty snow.

"Sure, sure. But something about it just seems –"

"Diversion." Steve's head snapped upright and he leaped onto the motorcycle behind Tony, gesturing for Clint to follow him. "Get on! Now!"

Clint had hardly swung himself onto the bike when the bullets began to fly again, their targeted paths casting sparks from the body of the motorcycle. Wrenching his wrist back, Tony gave the accelerator all he could and the front wheel of the bike soared into the air, filling Clint's nose with the stench of gasoline and smoke. They tore through the trees at a blistering pace, the snaps of sniper fire in close pursuit as they darted through the forest.

"We're still taking fire! Where are they?" Clint pounded on Steve's shoulder and hollered in his ear, keeping his head low under the gunfire.

"Our ride isn't going to last much longer, either!" Tony called back, angling his head back toward the back end of the bike, where the tire was fully deflated on account of a well-placed bullet. The motorcycle was already losing speed, and fast.

"Just keep moving! Don't let them stop this bike!" Steve hollered, and Tony angled the handlebars toward a figure emerging from the snow and the trees – a decrepit building half-covered in snow. Clint felt the bike give a mighty shudder beneath him and a piercing whine sounded.

"Jump!" Tony yelped, and Clint threw himself free of the bike as it careened into the nearest tree, exploding into a magnificent plume of fire.

"We've just given away our position! We need to keep going," Clint grabbed Steve's sleeve, but he was interrupted by Tony's frantic gestures.

"Who cares? We need shelter!" His boots kicking up flurries of snow, Tony sprinted for the shed like Clint had never seen him run before. The familiar pop of small-arms fire sounded in pursuit. Had the Germans followed them this far on foot?

Steve started after Tony, his expression chiseled with anger. "Stark, get back here! We need to keep moving!" He sprinted after the retreating mechanic, footsteps soft against the snow. The fire beside Clint was belching smoke, a beacon to any approaching Germans, and he reluctantly began to hurry after Rogers.

And then there was a snap of gunfire and he was on the ground and the world turned red.


	45. Triumph and Tragedy

_"Well, kids, you know I'd like to say to you_

 _'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,'_

 _but I know that little old kit bag is much too small_

 _to hold all the troubles you kids have got."_

 _\- Axis Sally_

* * *

 _Stuttgart, Germany; February 28, 1945_

"What are you _doing_?" Steve seethed, nearly wrenching the door of the shed off its hinges as he tore in after Tony. He found Stark examining the insides of the shed with all the air of a real estate agent, admiring the rotting planks as if they were fine marble. Typical.

"I am finding us a place to hide, thank you very much."

"A place to hide? Are you insane? That fire outside will bring any Germans in a twenty-mile radius running our way!"

Tony shrugged, turning away to fiddle with a locked cabinet hidden below a mountain of crumbling firewood. "Hiding in plain sight, then."

Steve looked up to the heavens and prayed for patience. "There are snipers and foot soldiers tailing us as we speak, and you want to camp out here? We have to go."

Tony turned back from the cabinet with a lopsided grin on his face and two bottles in his hand, salvaged from the collection of the shed's previous owner. He whistled with appreciation as he admired the labels. "1918 Pinot. Here's to the end of another war, yeah?"

Interrupted from his serious consideration of kicking Tony out into the cold at the mercy of the Germans, Steve turned to the window as a rush of fear came over him. "Where's Clint?"

-o0o-

Clint, at the moment, was pretty damn sure he was dying. There was no sound, no sight, no sensation save the gnawing pain tearing away at his leg at the knee, as if someone has loosed a wild dog on him. He wouldn't put it past the Krauts to sic some hound on him. Mustering all of the strength he could, he raised his head and looked down to ensure he wasn't becoming some German Shepherd's kibbles.

What he saw was infinitely worse. His leg was still attached, thank God, but it was surrounded by a rapidly swelling comma of blood seeping through the fresh snow. The scent of copper clogged Clint's nostrils and bile rose in his throat; the gnawing pain rose to a boiling intensity and he lowered his head back to the snow, feeling the cool of the ground against his burning skin.

"I'm not going to die," he growled into the snow, planting his palms into the sludge and trying to drag himself away. The merest nudge of motion sent tears to his eyes – he was sure he was pulling his leg in two, the German bullet searing like a thousand hot pokers. "Come on, you coward! Move!"

He could hardly see through the haze of smoke and tears and his swimming vision, but Clint could make out the form of the shed Tony had fled into. His anger inspired him to keep moving. When he got into that shed he would wring the kid's neck – one push, his palms scrabbling against the ice, his lungs burning to keep himself from screaming – he would tell him who's boss.

The singing twang of a bullet sounded and Clint flinched, flattening himself to the ground as the shot went wide. He was an easy target, lying wounded in the open with an obvious trail charting his path. A river of red traced a shaky line over the snow, brilliant scarlet against the ice. _Move!_

Throwing his weight to the left, Clint rolled over his good leg so that his stomach rested against the ground. Every limb screamed in agony and he dropped his chin to his chest, taking in shallow breaths, dispelling the fog rapidly spreading across his vision. He planted his elbows into the snow and dragged himself forward, bloody fingers clawing into the sludge. A moment of torture, a moment of rest. If his leg had fallen off he probably wouldn't have noticed.

The shed swam into view, hazy through the musk of blood and fire. Clint shook his head to clear it and watched as a twinkle of snow began to fall. _A little late for a white Christmas._ He was so close he could taste it. His arms were shaking uncontrollably, every muscle trembling and his mind on fire...

The door slammed open, and a spurt of gunfire followed. Clint held an arm above his head to shield himself, looking up through the crook of his elbow to see Steve standing over him, his M1 clutched in both hands as he sent fanning bursts of gunfire into the woods. Properly deterred, the Germans didn't fire back. Dropping his gun, Steve grabbed Clint by the elbows and pulled him back into the shed.

He couldn't hold it back anymore – Clint roared in agony as Steve dragged him across the floor into the safety of the shed. Snatching his gun from the doorway, Steve slammed the door and ducked beside the window, leaning forward ever so slightly to catch a glimpse out the frosted window. The glass promptly shattered and he pulled away, face stormy and brows knit in concentration.

"Now you've got us trapped. Are you happy now?" Steve scowled, his face swimming into focus before Clint. The sound seemed warbled to his ears. "Give me a hand here. Are you okay, Barton?"

"Welcome to the party, seaman." Tony toasted him from the side with what appeared to be a bottle of wine. Surely Clint was hallucinating.

"Where are you hit?"

"Give him a chance to breathe, all right? You want a drink, Barton?"

"What he needs is medical attention. Put that down now."

"You're not my commanding officer. Go boss someone else around."

"You really are a child, aren't you?"

"Fellas, please," Clint gasped, screwing his eyes shut, "Can't we do this somewhere else?"

There was a pause, then Steve leaned over to Tony. "Have you got any scissors in that briefcase of yours?"

Reaching to the side, Tony set down his bottle pulled his case from the side of the shed. "Scissors? I've got a full toolkit in here."

Looking grim, Steve took the pair of proffered scissors. "We may need that later."

Clint recoiled, squinting up at the man kneeling above him. "Beggin' your pardon?"

"Tony – I can't believe I'm saying this – I need you to find the strongest drink you have. Vodka would be best." He moved to the side and started to cut away at the layers of clothing over Clint's blood-soaked leg. Clint gritted his teeth and turned away, unwilling to look at what Steve would reveal.

"You're doing great, Barton, you're doing really good. You might want some of this," Tony knelt over him and held open a silver flask. Reaching up with trembling hands, Clint grasped it and took the largest swig he could muster, wincing as the drink burned its way down his throat.

"Stark, the washcloth from your shave kit?" Steve held open his hand and Tony gave him a clean white cloth. Steve took the flask as well, paused for a moment, then took a short drink. Clint nearly choked – Steve Rogers, drinking?

Turning the flask upward, Steve poured the vodka over the washcloth. "This is going to hurt, Clint. I'm sorry." Holding his hand over Clint's leg, Steve reached down and began to clean out the wound.

A lightning bolt split the shed and pinned Clint to the spot, sending fire spinning through his veins, and the world clicked to black.

-o0o-

"He's out," Tony called, tipping back the flask. Steve watched as he did so with concern. Having his last remaining conscious ally drunk was not ideal during a surgery.

"No exit hole. We're going to have to remove the bullet. Tweezers?"

"I would be lost without them," Tony winked as he handed over the tweezers. Steve dipped them in the flask. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled back the blood-sodden fabric from Clint's leg. The wound was rapidly swelling with blood again, so Steve mopped it up with Tony's washcloth and peered into the hole.

"Do you see it?" Tony looked down at Steve between his fingers.

"You're not helping," Steve growled, placing the tweezers between his teeth as he gently brought the skin apart at the source of the wound. Scarlet billowed over his fingers. The washcloth was rapidly becoming congealed with blood, but Steve mopped out the wound one last time before readying his tweezers.

"Tony, I need you to hold this open."

"What? Are you crazy? Oh, Jesus..." Tony muttered, kneeling opposite Steve and looking down at the gunshot wound with a sick expression on his face. "Right here? Oh, God!"

"It's just blood. It's not going to kill you, but we need to act fast here!"

"Okay, okay – oh, Jesus! Just go!" Tony cried, his eyes shut and his chin angled to the ceiling. Looking down into the wound, Steve brought his tweezers into the wound and probed around the sides as carefully as he could, forcing his fingers not to jerk back when he came in contact with something solid. He carefully grasped the object with the tweezers and removed it, mindful to keep the metal from inflicting any further damage. Removing his crimson-streaked fingers, Steve held the tweezers to the light.

"Did you get it?" Tony whispered.

"I think it's bone," Steve muttered. A low groan followed, and Steve watched as Tony darted to the side of the shed to empty his stomach. When his violent retching had subsided, he crawled back to Clint's side, swiping his sleeve across his mouth.

"One more time. Ready?" Steve angled an eyebrow at Tony, who nodded and brought the sides of the wound apart again. Steve lowered the tweezers one last time, forcing his face to remain impassive and his hands steady as the metal prongs dipped deeper. Another contact, this time the definitive touch of metal on metal. Bracing himself, Steve sucked in a breath and felt his way around the intact bullet, outlining the shape in his mind as he did with any machine.

 _That's it, this is a machine project. Just tinkering with a loose part._ He forced his index finger between the two prongs of the tweezers to separate them further and gripped the bullet. Tightening his touch, he shook the metal up and down to separate it from its lodged position, then carefully raised the suspended bullet clasped tight between the tweezers. Steve breathed a sigh of relief when it came into view, and he snatched his sulfa packet.

"Got any more washcloths? Bandages?"

Tony's horrified face stared up at him blankly for a second, then he stumbled back to his briefcase and rifled around with its contents for a minute. Steve did a double-take when he returned – in Tony's hands was what appeared to be a three-piece suit.

He looked apologetic as he offered it to Steve. "It's the one I picked up in London, remember? Just cotton, really cheap. Don't know why I kept it. Anyways, I think he deserves to have it." Tony looked down at Clint and gave him a definitive nod.

"Thanks. That's very decent of you, Stark." Steve smiled, nearly shocked into silence.

"I know. I'm a very decent person."

"And you just ruined it." Tearing open the sulfa packet with his teeth, Steve sprinkled the powder over the wound. Tony began tearing the suit into strips and handing them to Steve, who wrapped them around Clint's leg to staunch the bleeding. They worked in tandem and in silence until most of the material of the suit had been butchered into bandages. Blood-streaked and exhausted, they shared a look of quiet satisfaction.

"What now?" Tony sighed, rocking back on his heels.

"Keep him warm and hydrated. He should come to soon." Steve wiped his forehead and dragged his hair from his eyes, unable to pull his eyes from Clint's prone frame. A flutter of worry pulsed at his heart – had he forgotten something? Was there anything else he could do? Did he do something wrong?

"Where did you learn all of this, anyway?"

"Agent Carter's lessons on the _Reuben James._ The ones you couldn't be bothered to attend."

The faintest trace of an embarrassed flush spread across Tony's face. "Had I known they were useful, I might have shown up." He paused, the mood sobering. "Think he's going to make it?"

"He'd better. He's going to survive this war, I'm damn well sure of it."

Tony's eyes popped and his jaw dropped. "Steve Rogers drinking and swearing in the same day? What'll happen next? Maybe the Germans will win the war!"

 _((Chapter 45! We've made it so far! Thanks for your dedication to reading this!))_


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